Thirty Days or Less
by Selah25
Summary: Dean Winchester’s deal with the Crossroads Demon is coming to a head and with only a month left, he and his brother Sam, turn to a friend, for what could be Dean’s only way out of the deal. Could taking the higher road just this once be what he needs?
1. Chapter 1

Title: Thirty Days or Less

The night air was whipping through the open windows of the Chevy Impala as Dean Winchester and his brother, Sam, drove down the empty highway, leaving their latest battle with the paranormal in their wake. Sam had his hand raised to his head in mock annoyance as his brother's choice of song bounced from the speakers. They may have been the only ones on the road at three in the morning, but someone, somewhere, was dreaming of taking a bottle and shaking it up, and letting their sugary sweetness flow.

"Really, Dean," Sam attempted to reach for the dial, "Def Leppard?"

"Touch it, Sammy boy," Dean didn't take his eyes off the road, "and you're walkin' the rest of the way to New England."

"Remind me again," Sam retracted his hand and sat more upright in the leather confines of his seat, "why are we heading to New England?"

"Because little brother," Dean's voice was raspy with authority, "I've got thirty days or less and we need her help."

"You really think she's going to want to open old wounds, Dean?" Sam asked, concerned for his brother's well-being, but more so, for what lay in the hands of their old friend and what her reaction would be when they showed up uninvited after so many years had passed.

"You mean you're grasping at straws," Sam muttered, to which Dean floored the Impala.

"I'll take whatever the hell I can get," Dean drove on, "so if it's straws I'm grasping at, call me a sucker."

"Dean," Sam recoiled, apologizing got him nowhere with his brother. They had little time left, since Dean made a deal with the Crossroads Demon to save his brother's life, but the more they butted heads, the more Sam regretted going against Dean's attempts at finding a solution, plausible or not.

"I'm gonna do some research on her," Sam countered, "see what she's gotten herself into as of late."

"Trouble," Dean chuckled, "if it's the Donovan we knew."

"Donovan Lancaster," Sam recited as he scrolled through numerous web pages, reading off the latest bits of information of their childhood friend.

"Teaches a course at the local college, Parapsychology," Sam was interrupted by Dean,

"You tellin' me she's outing what we do?"

"Not in so many words," Sam cleared his throat, "more so, her course focuses on folklore, paranormal activity, and history of the occult."

"Damn it," Dean slammed his palm against the steering wheel, "what did Dad do?"

"You can't blame him for her wanting to explore this, Dean," Sam immediately jumped in front of Dean's accusatory bus to save his father from culpability.

"We took a similar course of action," he went on, "she just decided to fight with words and books."

"Instead of guns and magic," Dean shook his head.

"Wait a tick," Sam stopped Dean, "I'm not so sure about that."

"What did you find," Dean questioned him, trying to sneak a peak at Sam's laptop, silently thanking his latest mechanic for the sweet tire alignment, as he took his eyes off the road for minutes at a time.

"A picture of her house," Sam zoomed in on the photo, "it's one of the oldest in the county, and she was accredited for keeping it in its antique state but keeping it up to date with floral arrangements."

"Unless you're going somewhere with this, Sam," Dean suggested he was getting impatient, as he no sooner took his eyes off the laptop, Sam spoke up.

"Right, sorry," he zoomed the picture out again, "brain fart. She has a circular fence…a circular, white, picket fence."

"Only one reason to surround your house with a circle," Dean smirked.

"Keep evil out." Sam said matter of factly. Dean just nodded and drove.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Miles outside of Worchester County, Massachusetts, Dean struggled to keep his eyes open as the Impala barreled through the wooded and faintly daunting winding roads. Cussing to himself, he pulled the Metallicar to the side of the dusty road, as it skidded to a halt, opened his driver's side door, walked over to Sam, and mumbled,

"Slide over and drive."

"You're not serious," Sam didn't budge. Dean rarely let him drive and it was only in dire circumstances that the situation was called upon. From what Sam could gather, Dean wasn't bleeding to death, they weren't being chased by a demon, and well, Sam wasn't in the mood for one of Dean's pranks.

"Do I _not_ look serious," Dean smacked his two hands down onto the car door and stared into Sam's face, "now drive the damn car."

"Alright, alright, don't get your panties in a bunch," Sam smirked, "I'm drivin'."

"Geesh."

"Hell," Dean mumbled before his head hit the seat, "we're closing in on her place soon anyway, you think I'd let you drive for more than an hour on this twister of a highway with my baby in your hands?"

"Night, Dean." Sam jerked the driver's door closed and shifted the car into drive and the tires swerved back onto the barren road.

XXX

Donovan Lancaster was sitting on her sofa, cross legged, with term papers strewn across her lap, the floor, and the cushions, a red pen, dangling from her fingers as she scanned her latest student's paper. Shaking her head, she couldn't believe what she was reading; one of her student's actually thought that One-Eyed Willie from The Goonies was real. This was coming from a college student! She shook her head in amazement. Scanning the paper for some proof to tie in his theories, she found nothing, but the more and more she found herself editing, the paper was soon a bloody, red, mess. Disgusted, she scribbled a fat F on the paper, with See Me, double underlined, and muttered under her breath,

"If you even think of passing this course."

It was nearing five in the morning and when she should have been catching up on sleep, she was too busy catching up on her research, grading term papers, scheduling after school sessions, and not to mention emailing her group that they would be having their meeting this coming Wednesday at 7p.m. instead of 8p.m. As she finished sending off the email, she rechecked her messages, saw that for once, none of her students had decided to reach out at the last minute, and grateful for that, she closed her laptop. Collecting the strewn papers and piling them neatly into two piles, graded and non-graded, or as she liked to call them, Bull and Crap, she walked to her kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. That's when she heard it.

A car was inching its way onto her gravel driveway, but no sooner did she go to check her window, the headlights went dim. Panic set in her bones, but she didn't let it rest there long. She went to the hallway, found her side arm, which she had for reasons, she didn't feel she had to explain, and stood to the side of her front door, awaiting her trespassers. It was too late to put on the porch light, but then again, she waited until the two men slowly made their way up her driveway.

"What the hell are they doing," she mumbled, as she squinted out the window's drapery. It appeared to her that the two men were inspecting her fence and as they made their way over it, she laughed.

"They hopped it?"

If they were planning on robbing her, she thought to herself, they had another thing coming. They wouldn't get far. They appeared amateurish, but then again, she watched as they stooped at her front steps and took notice of the brick dust that lay at the front of her doorway. Flicking on the light, she surprised her two "guests" and opened the door, aiming her gun at the ready. However, it was Donovan, who wasn't ready for who was standing at her door, their hands held up in self defense, and their smirks, oh God, she thought to herself, those smirks.

"Dean?"

"Sam?"

"What the hell are you two doing creeping around like the damn Hardy Boys?"

"Well, Nancy Drew," Dean winked, "if you put down that gun, we might just tell ya."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Donovan was quick to usher the Winchesters into her home, sliding her bare feet across the wooden paneling to the antique walnut curio where she tossed her handgun into its holster and slammed the drawer shut. Turning quickly around, her long, brown curls, enveloped her slender face, she ran and jumped into Dean's arms.

"Damn good to see you," she pecked his cheek, which turned a shade of bashful red as he set her back down and she turned to look up at Sam.

"Sammy?" She rustled his wavy hair, "Years have done you good." She winked.

"You too," he coyly averted her gaze as Dean not so subtly cleared his throat.

"You know, I get that your students may be hot for teacher, but why the gun?" Dean nodded towards the drawer that held the weapon.

"Oh, that," Donovan laughed it off, "it's for protection, and obviously, trespassers." She tilted her head to which Sam immediately apologized.

"We didn't want to alarm you," Sam offered, "it being so late and all."

"So what were you going to do," she folded her lean, yet muscular arms, and as she did so, Dean caught the glimpse of something on the inside of her left wrist, "pick the lock?"

Their silence said it all.

"You two will never cease to amaze me," she shook her head, "so how long you stayin'?"

Dean and Sam exchanged a guarded look before answering,

"As long as you can stand us," Dean shrugged and smiled.

"That may not be as long as you think," she mumbled before walking out of the room, towards the kitchen, "you two want anything to drink?" She hollered.

"Beer if you have it," they shouted back in unison glancing down at her table, which housed an opened bottle of beer, resting on a coaster, condensation dripping down its lean exterior.

Dean elbowed Sam, harder than he had intended to which Sam winced,

"Damn it, Dean," he pointed to his side, "I'm still healing."

"Quit your moping," he patted his brother's shirt in apology, "did you notice her left wrist?"

"No, why?" Sam squinted, wondering how Dean took notice of her wrist when she was practically wearing nothing, but a dark blue singlet and a pair of boy shorts that could have possibly, been her undergarments. Sam, caught momentarily in his dirty thoughts, was nudged again.

"She's got a tat," Dean cocked an eyebrow and when Sam didn't catch on, Dean reluctantly revealed his pentagram tattoo with the sun's rays, and rolled his eyes.

"That same one?" Sam rubbed his own chest where his own personal tattoo was inked into his skin.

"Same damn one, Sammy boy, same, damn one."

"She's hiding something," Dean whispered, but was interrupted as Donovan came back into the room with two beers in one hand and a bag of pretzels in the other. Handing them off, Donovan squatted down onto the couch in between the two brothers and clinked her bottle against theirs.

"Here's to the good old days," she took a long sip of the cold brew, and as Dean and Sam both did the same, their eyes linked over their bottles in raised suspicion. Just what the hell did they stumble upon, now?


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Chapter 4

"So tell me," Donovan crunched on a pretzel, "there a witch hunt I'm not aware of?"

"Come again," Dean grabbed the bag of pretzels from Sam, who barely had his hand full, and Donovan was caught in between another Winchester brother fight.

"Boys!" she snatched the bag and reached in and handed each of them two pretzels,

"For each answer I get, you get another pretzel." She had them in the palm of her hands.

"Quid pro quo," Dean countered, "instead of a pretzel, I want my own answers." He smirked and raised an eyebrow, reminding her of how cocky he was.

"You got yourself a deal," she washed down the last of her salty pretzel with the cool, thick, frothiness of her beer.

They continued asking questions, the threesome never getting to their desired outcomes. Dean, nor Sam, brought up her circular fence, the brick dust, or the tattoo on her wrist. Donovan on the other hand, didn't ask them why it took them five years to show their faces again, why they looked like they hadn't slept in days, and why, for some unearthly reason, they looked more terrified than they had since the last time she set eyes upon them. Instead, Dean and Sam talked about their latest encounters with the otherworldly, and Donovan brought up her boring social life, that teetered on seminars and brunches. Neither of which, Dean believed.

Dean stretched his arms over his head, arched his back, yawned, almost feral like, indicating that he needed some rest. Waiting for him to finish, Donovan remembered him to be the slightly dramatic of the two, she asked if they wanted separate rooms. Sam and Dean looked at one another in terms that could only be described as shock and awe.

"We haven't slept without each other in forever."

"I'm sorry," Donovan did a double take, "you haven't _what_?"

"Get your mind out of the incestual gutter, Lancaster," Dean shot her an aggravated look.

"We've been hunkerin' down in motels across the country for what seems," but Sam finished his sentence, "like forever."

"Yeah," Dean nodded, "what _he_ said."

"Well, this isn't your run of the mill motel, guys, but I do offer fresh linens, hot water, and a fridge full of food." Noticing Sam's laptop, she added, "Each room has internet access, courtesy of the University."

"Not to mention," Donovan headed for the stairs, and with a quick turn of her head and a wink of an eye, "when you're here, you're safe."

Dean and Sam picked up their duffel bags, shared their all too familiar brotherly sixth sense and followed Donovan up the ancient wooden staircase. They stood in a dimly lit hallway and in mock gestures, she directed them down the hallway. Pointing with her thumb to the left, she told them that it was her bedroom, the door to its immediate right was the guest bathroom, across her bedroom on the right was one guest room with its own bathroom, and one room down on the left of that one, nearest the end of the hallway, was the last guest room.

"It's the smallest of the two," she shrugged, "I'm guessing it was either a child's room or a servant's quarters," she pointed to the bathroom in the hall, "hence the bathroom here."

"I'll take it," Sam gave her an awkward hug and mumbled a goodnight to Dean as he headed to the bedroom at the end of the hallway. Hearing the door shut, Dean turned to Donovan and hefted his bag.

"Well, I guess this one's mine," he turned towards the bedroom and reached for the brass knob and opened the door. Peering inside, he flipped on the light switch and tossed his duffel on the bed. Donovan followed him into the room and put a hand on his shoulder.

"Dean," she furrowed her brow, her thin pink lips, pouted, not seductively, instead, inquisitively, "why are you really here?"

He pulled her close and tugged at her wrist, revealing her tattoo, causing her to flinch, but as he caressed the symbol with the ball of his thumb, he brought her hand up to his chest and revealed his own tattoo. Donovan bit back a silent gasp, recognizing it immediately.

"Because I need your help," he released her hand, "and I know you're holdin' out on me."


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I don't know what you're talking about, Dean," Donovan lied through her teeth and he picked up on it immediately.

"Don't pull that bullshit with me," Dean raised his voice, causing Donovan to turn around and close over the door.

"Keep your voice down," she faced him, "you'll wake your brother."

"You think I care?" Dean sassed. Donovan laughed, "You tellin' me that you don't?"

Dean crossed the room and paced back towards her. Donovan hadn't the faintest idea what was running through his head, but she knew it had something to do with the tattoo, and if that was the case, what exactly was he running from in the first place?

"Why'd you get that tat?" Dean asked her, his voice stern.

"Because it's cute," she mocked him, "all the girls were getting them."

"Quit that bull," Dean raised a finger, "you were never into the cute stuff."

She inadvertently felt herself blush and headed to the door. She had her hand on the knob, when Dean approached her from behind, and twisted her to face him. He had her back pinned up against the door in no time. Their bodies were dangerously close. She could feel his hot breath on her face and her lips were inches from his.

"You're right," she countered, "I'm more into the rough stuff."

Aggravated with her, Dean pushed against the door with the palms of his hands, and she moved to the side.

"You want answers?" she pulled open the door and crossed the hallway to her own room, "Come and get them."

She opened her door and revealed a rather large bedroom. She had a queen-sized bed, with four posts, that nearly touched the ceiling. A canopy of drapes hung from them, but what was more inviting, was the artwork. She had various canvases, statues, and their common bond, was the ancient markings. It was as if Dean had walked into a sanctuary. Donovan kept a close eye on him as he walked around her room, tracing the markings with his finger, retracting it when she coughed.

"Wouldn't want to damage the art work," Donovan approached him, as he was standing in front of an abstract piece of artwork. In the center of it, was the very same pentagram, with the rays of sun, circling it.

"Those cost me a bundle."

Dean pointed to various statues, scanned her bookshelves that homed books on the paranormal, supernatural, and many on folklore. Many of the books appeared to be quite old, which peaked Dean's interest. He ran a finger along the leather spine of one and Donovan told him to take it down.

"I imagine you can read Latin," she watched as he fingered through the pages.

"Speak it, chant it, can't say I understand it much, but it gets the job done," he mumbled, his eyes immediately falling back on the artwork above her bed.

"Answers," he nudged her, "now."

"It's going to take me back to a dark place Dean," she shook her head, "so let's bypass the night your father killed the demon that murdered my parents, and go straight to my eighteenth birthday."

"Van," he realized he had hit upon a sore spot. She shushed him.

"You want me to continue cowboy or what?" Dean sat on the edge of her bed, nodded, and listened to her.

"I was spending the night doing some research on demons, when I should have been writing a term paper, when I got a knock on my dorm door. I didn't have many friends; I preferred to dedicate my days to school and my nights to hunting, so it didn't really leave room for a social life. I wasn't expecting anyone, so when I opened the door, to find a small, wrapped, box, at the foot of my door, I thought it was…," she took a breath, "I dunno…I thought maybe someone had remembered my birthday." She watched his reaction and continued.

Dean paled. They had gone their separate ways, and he rarely kept in touch with her, let alone anyone from his past. He wanted to tell her that he thought of her often, that he would stop and buy a cupcake and blow out the candle, wishing her a happy birthday, but he didn't. She wouldn't believe him anyway. Not, tough, sarcastic, brooding, Dean.

"I remember opening the box, carefully, anxious that it might be a trick or a rendition of Pandora's, but as I unwrapped it, there was a small, handwritten note, from Bobby."

"Bobby?" Dean questioned her.

"Short and to the point, Bobby," she smiled and impersonated his voice, "Here's wishing you a happy one. Didn't think I'd forget ya, now did ya?"

"Inside was a ring and an amulet," she went to her jewelry box and retrieved something small. She handed the silver ring and the amulet attached to a worn, suede necklace, to Dean. Both had the same insignia on them; the pentagram with the sun's rays.

"He sent you these," Dean looked them over, "to protect you."

"Yeah," she sighed, "too little, too late."

"The ring didn't fit, it was too big, and there were many times, I would forget to wear the damn amulet."

"So you got yourself some ink," Dean surmised.

"So I got myself some ink," she showed him the tattoo again, "so I'd always be protected."

"That explains the tat," Dean handed her back her stuff, "but what about the brick dust?"

Donovan had to laugh. He could be so dense sometimes. She reminded him about ancient folklore, from the South; Hoodoo.

"Please, Van," he smirked, "you don't believe in that mumbo jumbo, voodoo schmoodoo."

"That's just it," she went to a drawer and lifted out a small, leather sachet, and poured it into her hands. "I didn't and it almost got me killed."

"I took a small trip back south and stumbled upon a house that was originally owned by a wealthy lot, whose servants practiced Hoodoo. The more and more I investigated, the more I would experience these dreams. It was as if they were summoning me."

"Little did I know that the current owners of the house were possessed by the servants who had been murdered."

"So, the brick dust?" Dean asked again.

"Southern folklore, suggests that if you line brick dust up against the entrances of your home, those who are evil, or possessed, cannot pass through."

"So it's the southerner's salt?"

"Right," Donovan nodded, grateful that he was finally catching on.

"But this ain't the South," he smirked, "it's burn 'em at the stake Massachusetts."

"It works, Dean," she exasperated, "plus this whole place is secured."

"So you said," Dean went to her window, but didn't notice any brick dust, salt, or anything else, that would suggest they were safe.

"It's in the lacquer," she instructed him to run his hands over the windowsill, "I laid the salt down, poured the lacquer over it, and Voila!"

"Well I'll be damned," Dean laughed, "what else?"

"Every room in this house has a King of Solomon circle," she winked.

"I didn't see any," Dean scrutinized, but then Donovan removed a rug that was strewn in the middle of her room, and walked over to the light switch. Brighter than an indiglo watch, there in the center of her room, was indeed a King of Solomon circle.

"You sure like to keep busy," Dean turned the light back on, "wait until Sammy sees this."

"So I'm assuming the town doesn't know you did some restoration of your own on this landmark?" He snickered.

"Wouldn't have won that award, if they had, now would I?" She cocked her head.

Donovan approached Dean who had his back rested against her closed door, and was inches away from his face. She had her hands placed on either side of him and leant in and whispered,

"You said you needed help," she noticed Dean squirm and smiled, "I'm at your disposal."


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Dean was pinned up against the door without an inch to budge and if he didn't soon, well, he thought to himself, there's gonna be more than an inch 'round here. Donovan noticed his eyes glaze over and a bead of sweat formed at the border of his hairline. She refused to move until he said something, but it was as if he was caught,

"Between a rock and hard place," she realized she had said that aloud and Dean smirked.

"You could say that again," his eyes fell below to his waist and Donovan followed with her own eyes.

"Oh, Dean," she pushed herself away in mock disgust, "it doesn't take much, does it?"

"Hell, that's a record for me," he laughed but noticed he couldn't just walk away, so as she predicted, he was caught in the middle of something hard, that was right. He watched her walk into the bathroom and he heard her turn on the faucet. Figuring she was going to take a shower, he waiting patiently for his body to return to normal. He didn't hear her approach but he sure as hell felt the prickly cold water as she threw a pitcher of it at him.

"That should help," she flicked the pitcher at him, teasing him with the remaining droplets of ice water. Waving her off with his left hand, he shook his shirt with his right.

"Peachy," he muttered, "thanks a bunch."

"Hey," she placed the pitcher on her dresser, "it did the trick." She stared at his waist. He shamefully looked down and realized she was right. He pointed to his face with two fingers and dismissed her,

"I'm up here, Miss Pervy, if you don't mind."

"I don't." She winked and changed the subject. "So, you said you needed my help and obviously you're doin' just fine in _that_ area, so…I'm guessing you didn't mean a booty call?"

"Yeah, no, I…," he shook his head, what was he thinking, it was never a fling with her, but he'd be damned, nix that, he thought to himself, _I am damned_, to give up a chance with her. He couldn't face her; he couldn't tell her that he had a month to live; he couldn't hurt her again. But alas, as Dean Winchester's record clearly states for all women to see, his mouth usually gets him in trouble and hurts them in the end.

"That's not gonna happen," he told her, "not with you, not now, not ever."

Donovan didn't know what that was, but she was sure he just slapped her twice over. The hell with him, she thought, to refuse her, like he was too good for her, now, after all those years.

"Go to hell," she gritted her teeth and Dean mentally slapped himself, _if she only knew._

"There goes that," he muttered under his breath.

"You're damn right," she pushed past him and opened the door.

"Get out, Dean," she pointed to his room, "go dry up and when you're done, go screw yourself while you're at it."

"Van," he reached for her, but she grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm around his back, pushing him into the hallway.

"Don't _Van _me," boy was she angry, he thought, and strong as ever, too. "You want my help, fine, but don't think for one second, you're goin' to waltz in here and mess with my head."

"You don't know what it's been like to get you out of _this_," she pointed to her head.

Slamming the door in his face, she left Dean standing, soaking wet, in his blue jeans. He didn't know what to do; he must have stood outside her door for a half hour, just staring at it, as if it held the answers. He heard a slight creaking noise from down the hall and a light shone, revealing a disheveled and half asleep Sam, walking towards the bathroom. Rubbing his eyes, he looked at his brother, and chuckled.

"So you opted for _not _telling her, I see," he patted his brother on the shoulder, a wet, slopping noise echoed down the hall.

"What was I supposed to say, Sammy," Dean finally averted his eyes off her door and turned to his brother.

"Oh hey, long time no see, I sorta sold my soul, and I'm gonna die in a month," Dean mocked, "think you can help me out?"

Sam stood there and nodded, "Yeah, bro, that's exactly what you should have said."

"Stubborn son of a bitch," Dean mumbled, and he reached for her door knob, but it didn't budge. She locked him out; just like he did to her five years prior.

"There's always tomorrow," Sam said as he flushed and walked back to his room, leaving Dean to wallow and chafe in his jeans.

There weren't that many _tomorrows_ left, he bitterly thought to himself as he entered his room, stripped down to nothing, put on a pair of dry boxers, and plopped onto bed, emotionally drained. Dean knew he could trust her, but what was the point, he shrugged to himself, he didn't care whether he found a way out of the deal or not, and quite honestly, he felt as if he was obligated to go along with Sam's ideas, just in order to keep his brother happy. He was tired of all the fighting, he was fed up with tracking down demons, and more so, he was just plain old tired, of watching a life he was never one hundred percent happy with, go straight to Hell. He couldn't break the deal or try to weasel his way around it; he'd lose his brother and he _couldn't_ live without Sam, but what was he doing? He knew he should feel sorry for not giving a rat's ass about how his brother would cope with his death, but he was Sam; he had a life, that's all that mattered. He realized his brother had watched him die, repeatedly, any which way you could imagine, some, Dean thought to himself, were masterfully creative, while others were trite. Hit by a car, he shrugged off, mauled by a dog, but damn, getting flattened by a desk? His death was a farce; as was his life, his eyes became heavy, a badly executed joke. What was even funnier, he chuckled, was the King of Solomon circle painted on the ceiling above his bed; it was glowing in the dark. _She really knew how to one up the bastards, didn't she?_

It was nearing eleven a.m. when Sam burst into Dean's room and opened the shades, evoking a litany of profanity from his brother's lips. Dean threw the covers over his head and told his brother to scram. Sam wouldn't have it.

"Dude," Sam gushed, "did you know she's pretty much booby trapped the entire house with King of Solomon circles?"

"I mean, she's brilliant, Dean," Sam laughed, "glow in the dark paint."

"Salt in the lacquer," Dean mumbled and Sam did a double take.

"Salt in the what?"

Knowing it was a losing battle, Dean uncovered his face and sat upright in bed, a smirk on his face.

"She's got all the window ledges sealed off with lacquer poured over salt," to which he pointed to the window for Sam to inspect, "I wouldn't doubt for a minute that she didn't do the same to the doorways."

"Hell, she probably has holy water on tap," Dean sneered, "just in case."

Sam's eyes lit up, "You really think so?"

"Snap out of it," Dean threw a pillow, hitting Sam upside the head, "you mambie pambie, she's not into you."

"From what I saw last night," Sam chucked the pillow, along with an insult back at his brother, "you were the one all wet with no place to go."

The two continued to bicker back and forth, their voices escalating one moment, and then they were entangled in a heated whisper of why Dean should come clean about his deal with the Crossroads Demon. Donovan couldn't take it anymore, as she tossed her duvet off her legs, crossed her room, swung open her door, and headed across the hall. They had been going at it for more than a half hour and nothing bothered her more than the incessant whispering. It was worse than water dripping. She barged into Dean's room, just as he shouted at his brother,

"It's only a matter of time before the hounds seek me out and carry me off to Hell."

Donovan exhaled, like a balloon with a small tear, snapping the brothers to her presence. Hounds? Hell? She couldn't have heard right, she thought to herself. She knew they had let out an army of demons, but she didn't realize the price. Hellhounds only came to stake their claim on those who made a deal with the devil, or in Dean's case, a Crossroads Demon. She found herself drawn to Dean like a magnet and she struck his cheek with the palm of her hand.

"Well," Dean rubbed the side of his face, "that's gonna leave a mark."

"How long do you have," she placed a hand to her hip, "or are you too stupid to think I'd care?" Dean averted his eyes.

"Twenty-nine days," Sam spoke up, "and counting."

"And what?" she was highly pissed, "You're goin' to just stay in bed?"

"I wasn't plannin' on sleepin'," he answered her, with cockiness in every word, "if you catch my drift."

"Moron," she threw the word in his face.

She turned her anger to Sam and pointed an accusatory finger in his direction.

"You should have told me," she took two long strides and was near Sam's face, "why didn't you tell me?"

"It's not his battle," Dean stood up and crossed over to his brother, "lay off."

"It is my battle," Sam corrected his brother, "it's may fault they have a contract over your life in the first place."

"Don't start, Sammy," Dean ranted, "it's like a damn broken record with you."

"Someone better start," Donovan demanded, "and from the beginning."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Dean and Sam were standing by the window looking down at a seated Donovan who was staring up at them as if they had completely fallen off their rockers. Dean decided on the abridged version of how he attained his one year contract, while Sam preferred to butt in and add his own two cents about why Dean shouldn't have done it in the first place. So, after about an hour of the familiar Winchester banter, Donovan had learned that some kid, named, Jake, had killed Sam. The very same Sam that had festered on a motel bed for days before Dean summoned a Crossroads Demon and sealed the deal. _The_ Sam that was standing in front of her, who was very much alive and Dean was very much the same obstinate jackass she had known all her life.

"You're supposed to get ten years," she deadpanned, "and you got one."

"So get to the point where you explain why you waited until you had a month left to traipse into my town, _my_ life," she shoved a finger into her chest, "why?"

"I mean, c'mon," she shook her head, "did you run out of options?"

"Am I your last resort?" She stood up; anger crinkled her forehead, "Am I not in your top five?"

She was angry, he could see that, hell, he could feel it, her words slapping him, rightfully so, cold cocking him, left and right. Dean glanced to his left and caught Sam's eye. Sam swallowed; his body rigid from a fear that Donovan might just start walloping him.

"Calm down," Dean harangued himself silently, telling Donovan to calm down was like teasing a bull with a red flag; it only egged her on.

"You were never our _last_ option," Sam's voice was soothing like menthol was to a sore throat.

"Please Sam," she sneered, "and here I thought you were the smart one," she waved a hand, "thought you'd have a plan ready to be executed."

"But no," her hands were flailing, her lips moving a mile a minute, "instead you decided to just follow in Dean's stupid little excursions wasting time."

She stopped for a second and snapped her head towards Dean, having a stroke like epiphany, "Does Bobby know?"

Dean snapped his fingers and cocked his head to the side, "Damn it, Sammy boy, I knew we forgot something!"

"Yes he knows," Sam attempted to reconcile the situation, "and he's as angry as you, "Oh, I doubt that," Donovan crossed her arms and interrupted, to which Sam sighed in defeat, "…but lost as to what we can do." Sam rushed to finish his sentence, before she could get another word in edgewise.

"I'm not lost," Dean argued, "I just don't care."

"You care," Donovan's voice was low, dangerously boiling in a slow purr, "in your own sick demented way."

Dean didn't say as much as his facial expressions did all the speaking for him. She _was_ right. However, he wasn't going to tell her that. It was more fun watching her get angry. He was to blame and the more she yelled, the more he hated himself. The more he hated himself, the tougher he'd be, to survive down _there. _

"Well, it doesn't do much to care, when you've got Hell just itching to get its slutty 'lil hands on ya," he countered.

"So…what?" she questioned him, "You just give up and live it up, to hell with who you leave behind?"

"Don't you think I haven't thought about that," he growled at her. Sam sliced through the anger with his blade of common sense, sincerity, and honesty.

"Dean didn't want to come to you, because he didn't want to hurt you, neither of us did," Sam found himself walking slowly over to a shaking Donovan and wrapped his arm around her waist.

"But I've convinced myself," he looked to his brother, "I've sworn that I'd get Dean his life back," Sam pulled her in tighter, "and you know him, he's stubborn, defiant, reckless…"

"I think that's more than enough adjectives, Sam," Dean gave him a look that screamed he had had enough.

"You forgot pigheaded," Donovan rested her head on Sam's chest, "and self absorbed."

"Great," Dean pursed his lips and raised an eyebrow, "so we've got _me_ all figured out, so who's up for raisin' some hell and figurin' a way out of the deal?"

"What makes you think I'll help," she nudged herself free of Sam's grip.

"Because I'm also irresistible," he gave her his puppy dog eyes, "and you know it."

"Do I?," she shrugged as if she didn't, and walked out of the room, leaving Dean and Sam to stare as she departed. Dean found his eyes transfixed on her swaying hips.

"Quit lookin' at my ass," she called over her shoulder, "and get yours and your little brother's down to the kitchen."

"Right," Dean nodded, "that went better than I thought."

"Really, Dean," Sam's brow furrowed in disappointment, "you could have helped me out just a little."

"Nah," Dean slapped his brother on the back and headed downstairs, "it was way more fun watching you squirm."

"Of course it was," Sam muttered as he trailed behind his brother's footsteps.

Donovan was busy throwing some fruit and ice-cream into a blender, one that kept on pulsating, chopping, and swirling, as if it were Dean's innards inside of it. The brothers entered the kitchen and Sam chuckled, watching as she jabbed the buttons on the blender. He whispered towards his brother,

"Dude, I think _that's_ you in there," he pointed to the blender. Dean swatted him upside the head and called out over the loudness of the kitchen appliance,

"Ain't it a little early for ice-cream?"

The whirring of the blender came to a slow stop as Donovan looked over her shoulder,

"This coming from the guy who eats tacos for breakfast?"

"Touché," Dean pulled a navy bandana from is back pocket and waved it, "how about a truce?"

"How about that's _not _white, you idiot," she poured herself a smoothie and offered one to Sam, who took it with pleasure. He wasn't one to turn down a sweet, no matter the time of day.

"Hey, it's the thought that counts," Dean wryly smiled, "ain't that right, Van?"

"You know what Thought did," she sipped her smoothie and licked her lip, "don't ya?"

"No, what?" Sam had fallen into a trap and before he knew it, Donovan came out with the punch line.

"He _thought_ he was loaded," she took another sip, "but in actuality, he _crapped_ himself."

Sam choked on his fruity blend of sweet vanilla ice-cream and blueberries, and Dean handed him a napkin, as the smoothie shot out of his nose,

"Hilarious," Dean shook his head at her smugly, "that's just hilarious."

"It really was," Sam started to laugh as he wiped his face and balled the napkin and tossed it across the kitchen to the garbage can.

"Don't even think of using that," she winked, "it came from the vault of family heirlooms centered on wise asses and wise women."

"So, I was thinking, she turned the subject back to Dean, "I may know a way out of your deal, if you're lookin'."

Sam and Dean looked at one another. Sam was practically jumping out of his skin, while Dean was shaking his head, defiantly. Donovan just leant back against the counter and waited, impatiently, as she tapped a fingernail against the glass.

"Come on, Dean," Sam whined, "let's just hear her out. What harm can come from that?"

"That's what I'm worried about," Dean finally turned back to Donovan.

"So let's have it," he shrugged as he watched her approach him with a wry smile and she pecked him on the cheek. He brought his hand up to his face where she had kissed him and furrowed his brow,

"That's your plan?" he smirked, "Kissing me won't stop the hounds, although it would prove for a kinky show."

"No, dumbass," she punched him lightly on the chest, "I'm just glad you caved in."

"I have a contact, who specializes in _demonic deals_," she walked out of the kitchen and told them to follow her to the living room, where she picked up her cell phone, punched in a few numbers and spoke,

"Father Carmichael, please."

Sam and Dean tried their hardest to stifle the laughter, but they couldn't control themselves. No sooner had they begun to raucously laugh, they were silenced by an index finger that she placed firmly over her lips.

"C'mon, darlin'," Dean jested, "a priest is your connection?"

"Sammy here can exorcise," he jabbed a finger into his brother's arm, "better than any priest out there."

"Unless he's got a _higher_ connection," Dean pointed upward, "then he's useless in my book."

"Listen," her voice was a harsh whisper, "_One_, he's not a priest," Dean whistled an Amen to that, "_two_, he does have higher connections," she winked, "and _three_," her voice found its way back to normalcy, "he may just be crazier than you two."

Donovan's cheeks blushed as she mumbled, "Oh…Father Carmichael, I didn't hear you pick up."

"Yes, that's right," she fumbled around the words, "I did call you crazy."

"Oh, this is priceless," Dean crossed his arms over his chest as he watched her on the phone, "she's gonna be sayin' Hail Mary's for a week."

Dean's broad smile quickly erased as he heard her talkin' about the paranormal to a so-called priest. Donovan sat down on her couch, cross-legged and began rattling off a number of reasons why they needed to meet earlier than Wednesday. Sam and Dean exchanged a look that surmised,

"What happens on Wednesdays?"

"Right," Donovan nodded, "Winchesters."

"I'm sorry," Dean jerked his head, "is there a reason you just gave out our name?"

Donovan asked if she could put Father Carmichael on hold, put her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, and looked up at both brothers.

"Because you two are a hot commodity in the realm of supernatural," she smirked and placed air quotes around the word supernatural, "and it just so happens, that _he _knew about you two, before I ever lectured on your history."

Sam's face became pale as a ghost, "You teach a class on us?"

"Are you insane?"

"I teach what the kids what to learn about," she shrugged, "what goes bump in the night and all that kooky stuff."

"They raise a topic and if I see fit, I weed out the truth from the fiction."

"Father Carmichael's the one who alerted me to the ever increasing population of demons that you two resurrected." Dean and Sam swallowed lumps of guilt knowing she was right. They had let out an army, but could they trust their lives, and what remained of Dean's to some religious nut who just so happened to "know" about the army itself?

"_He_ approached _me_," she justified, "so before you get your panties in a twist, just hear him out."

Dean and Sam were stunned. They were utterly speechless; a first for both. Dean couldn't find the words, so he just hit his brother on the arm. Sam, returned the blow. They did this for about a minute before Sam found his tongue.

"Wait," he grabbed the cell out of her hands and flipped it closed, hanging it up.

"Let us check him out first," he said before she could flip out about what he just did, "let us do our job and if he's legit, then we'll have a listen, okay?"

Donovan thought for a second and sighed, "Right, what was I thinking," she agreed. Her cell began to ring, but she ignored it, sending Father Carmichael to voicemail. She'd email him later, apologizing, but for now, she knew that no matter all the research she had dug up on him, the boys would want to do their own. It's how they operated. No sooner had Sam hung up her cell, he was on Dean's.

"Hey, Bobby," Sam raised his eyebrows twice for effect, "how long will it take you to get out to Donovan's?" Sam waited a nanosecond before smiling,

"That's what I thought." He hung up and Dean shot him a look.

"What?" Sam shrugged feigning cluelessness as he winked at a receptive Donovan.

"You hungry?" Sam nudged Dean, who was easily distracted by the finer things in life, like food, be it baked, fried, barbecued, or smothered in cheese, "Because I'm pretty sure we're hungry."

"I'm always hungry," Dean mumbled, following behind his brother and Donovan as they headed back towards the kitchen, "but if you think you can bribe with me food," Dean's mouth dropped as Donovan threw down on the kitchen counter, a dozen or so Take Out menus, and grinned, "then you are so _absolutely_ right."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

In Dean's quest to find the quote unquote, _ultimate burger_, they decided to order from _Mom & Pops'_, a quaint, yet slightly eclectic establishment that served, "Just about the best burgers in Massachusetts", according to Van. Settling on three large orders of waffle fries with Cajun sea salt and Pop's secret nacho sauce for dipping, Sam went with the Western Cheeseburger, covered in cheddar, onions, jalapenos, and two slices of crisp bacon, Donovan settled for a turkey burger, smothered in Alpine Swiss, avocado, and bacon, which left Dean's order; two colossal All Americans, extra cheese, red onion, dill pickle, lettuce and tomato, smothered in ketchup and mustard. Pop threw in a six pack of Blue Moon and a jug of Mom's homemade ale; which was definitely _not_ for the lightweights, but free of charge, because Donovan was their number one customer.

Awaiting their order, Sam darted upstairs, took a quick shower, unhitched his laptop from its perch on the small end table in his even smaller room, and in a few, extremely gangly and long strides, he was back in the living room, beginning his research on Father Carmichael. He left Dean and Van in the kitchen, stifling his chuckles as he heard them attempt to make small talk, the tension from the previous night, still cutthroat and dense.

"So…," Dean cleared his throat, "last night was awkward, huh?"

Donovan took a bottle of spring water from her fridge, grateful that her back was towards Dean, she suppressed the urge to kick him in the shins, and plastered an ever so fake smile on her face, and turned to face him. She didn't say a word as he stood there, his hands in his jean pockets, rocking back and forth on his heels.

"I'd say it bordered along the lines of harsh and cruel punishment," she took a sip of water, "but if awkward's the word you're choosing, who am I to disagree?"

"Right," Dean abruptly stopped rocking and jabbed, "you? Disagree? Never."

Donovan inched her way closer to Dean and shortened the gap between the two of them. She placed her bottled water on the counter and shrugged,

"I get it, Dean," she sighed, "you're scared."

"That's not it," Dean lied but she taunted him, "Then what is it? Afraid to rekindle what we had with a .08 chance of surviving?"

"Scared or not," she bit at her lip playfully, "I know I'd miss my sweet ass too if I had a one way ticket to Satan's lounge."

"Damn it, Donovan," Dean grabbed her chin and brought his mouth dangerously close to hers, "you can't just let things go, can you?"

Before she had a chance to give him yet another tongue lashing, it was Dean who surprised her with one of his own, except no words were spoken. His lips were rough, yet his mouth was so warm and inviting, Donovan inhaled in shock, as he brought her closer to him, their mouths and tongues vying for dominance over the other. Dean had one hand curled into her hair, the other gripped tightly around her waist. Donovan tilted her head, side to side, Dean's lips dancing along hers. Donovan's hands found refuge in Dean's neck, one slipping to his shirt, her grasp tightening and wrinkling it, with a passion she had long forgotten, but missed all the same. Dean released his lips from hers and looked her straight in the eyes,

"Goddamn," he swallowed as he watched her run her tongue over her bottom lip and smile,

"You can say that again," she chuckled.

"Goddamn." He cocked his head to the side and mischievously grinned. She swatted him on the chest and shook her head.

"You can't be serious," she pointed to the living room and lowered her voice, "your brother is right there."

"Sammy won't mind," he winked as she shook her head in disbelief, "he's practically attached to that laptop of his, come to think of it, he really needs a woman."

"He's right, Van," Sam hollered from the next room, "I won't mind."

Donovan brought a hand to her mouth as Dean grabbed her other hand and began to pull her out of the kitchen towards the staircase. Nudging Dean, she whispered something along the lines of how did he hear me, when Sam again, shouted over the furious typing of his keyboard.

"I was wonderin' when you two would just give in already."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean rolled his eyes towards his brother and then looked at Donovan, who had one foot on the bottom step.

"So," he winked, "what'd you say about a .08 chance this would never work out?"

"I was always lousy when it came to Statistics."

Sam shook his head in amazement as he heard them running up the stairs like two teenagers. After a few minutes, however, Sam wasn't shaking his head, but putting in his earpieces to his MP3 player, tuning out what sounded like Spring Break '08 going on upstairs, above his head. Sam scrolled through the web pages as he ran a search for a Father Carmichael and came up with a few solid finds. As he bookmarked the pages, he groaned as he heard louder banging, although this time, it was coming from the front door. Jumping up, he ran to the door to find Bobby standing there with two large bags from _Mom & Pops'_. The delivery guy was standing awkwardly next to Bobby, with a confused look on his face. Bobby brushed past Sam and grunted,

"Pay the boy, would ya?"

Chuckling, Sam tossed the kid a couple of bills and shut the door. He followed the aroma of the burgers and found that Bobby had begun to dig into what could have only been one of Dean's All American's. Scanning over the jug of ale, Bobby took off his hat.

"You shouldn't have," he uncorked the jug and took a swig.

"I didn't," Sam laughed as he heard a slight commotion above his head.

"Where's your brother?" Bobby took another ferocious bite out of the burger and looked around.

"On the other hand," he swallowed, "where's Donovan?"

Sam averted his eyes and took out some waffle fries and pointed above their heads, indicating that they were both upstairs.

"Still sleepin'?" Bobby questioned, "Don't they know they can't just sleep this away?"

What sounded like a dull thump came over head which could have been only two things; either a table ended up oveturned or one of them fell off the bed. Bobby frowned as he heard shuffling which caused the floorboards to creak overhead and water being turned on sent the ancient pipes into vibration mode. Indicating that one or two of them had entered the shower. Sam was betting on the latter.

"Hell, Sam," he slammed the jug of ale on the table, "you're brother's some piece of work."

"It was inevitable," Sam shrugged.

Bobby and Sam hashed over their food as they waited for Donovan and Dean to rejoin the living. It was about a half hour before they finally did.

"It's illogical and a waste of time," Bobby ran a hand over his scruffy cheeks, "the boy needs his head in the game, not screwing around with an old flame."

Donovan and Dean were coming down the stairs when they heard the end piece of Sam and Bobby's conversation. A bit disheveled and flushed, they entered the kitchen and Dean was the first to speak.

"That better not be my burger, Bobby," to which the aged hunter smirked and took another bite.

"It might just be _the best_ burger," he groaned in delight as Dean became slightly annoyed.

"For the record, Bobby," Donovan scooted up on a barstool that lined the table, "Dean's head is definitely in the game."

"She isn't a waste of time, either, Bobby," Dean ransacked the bags and pulled out his burger and twisted the cap off one of the beers.

Bobby choked a bit on Dean's burger, unaware that they had heard what he said, embarrassed, he grumbled,

"Sorry, kids," his voice a bit gruff and his eyes lightened when he took in Donovan's appearance.

"Where's the amulet," he swallowed a fry, "ain't your style?"

Donovan flicked up her wrist to reveal her tattoo and the brothers laughed at Bobby's reaction.

"I like things to be a bit more permanent in my life," she slapped Bobby on the back, snapping him out of his paralytic phase, "not to say I wasn't grateful that you remembered me." Bobby blushed and changed the subject.

"So, what's the case?"

Donovan furrowed her brows and Sam chortled.

"Dean's the case," he munched on a few more fries, "where's _your_ head at, Bobby?"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Sam printed out a handful of sheets on Father Carmichael and as he shuffled them towards Bobby and the others, Dean choked on a fry.

"Hold on a tick," he waved the paper in his hand around, "I thought you said this guy was a priest?"

"Get the ball o' wax outta your ear, Winchester," Van reprimanded, "I said he _wasn't_."

"Then why's he parading around as one?" Dean said between a mouthful of fries and beer.

"Here," Sam interrupted, "I think I can clarify," he started to read an excerpt from one of the newspaper articles he found online.

"Father Carmichael, pastor of St. Lucy's Parish in Denver, Colorado, has been under strict orders from the Papal Ministry to resign, for conduct unbecoming of a Roman Catholic priest."

"Tell me he doesn't like little boys," Dean swallowed and had a look of disgust on his face.

Van threw a balled up napkin and it bounced off Dean's forehead, "No, you idiot, that's just sick."

"Well," Dean shrugged, "in our line of work, what isn't?"

Clearing his throat, Sam continued. "After what appeared to be a community exorcism, Father Carmichael, along with thirteen parishioners, set the church ablaze, burning it, along with the bodies of the parishioners, alive. Father Carmichael, who suffered from minimal burns, was otherwise unscathed. He was found guilty of the deaths of the parishioners, excommunicated from the Holy Church, and has not been seen since."

"A rogue priest on the lam," Dean chuckled, "now I've heard everything."

"When did that all occur?" Bobby questioned Sam, who scanned the article. He looked up with wide eyes mumbling the date.

"When you boys opened the gates to Hell," Bobby slurred his words, the ale having taken effect.

"Figures," Dean scoffed. "We let out the army and ruin a priest's life all in the matter of months."

"He showed up in town a few months back," Donovan filled in the blanks, "anyone new around hear stirs up some commotion, especially when he starts taking an interest in my class."

"I ran a search on him," Donovan confessed, "found out who he was and approached him."

"He murdered a baker's dozen of civilians, Van," Dean huffed, "now why in the hell would you mosey on up to him?"

"Because," she emphasized the word, "they weren't civvies, Dean, they were possessed souls."

"How you figure?" Sam was interested.

Donovan didn't say anything which caused the three men to look at her suspiciously. She wriggled her nose and tried to sound as innocent as possible,

"I just happened to be in town the night it went down," she shrugged, not believing herself either.

"Spill it, Lancaster," Dean leaned forward and rested his elbows on his knees.

"I was on the hunt," she spoke of it like second nature, "followed some leads, I had some time coming to me, so I took a vacation."

"There was talk about a group of demons, preying on the religiously defunct, soliciting the down and out," she took a swig of her beer and rested it back down on the coaster.

"You mean they were suckin' in poor saps, like your run of the mill, cult?" Dean quipped.

"Exactly." Van smiled, grateful Dean was catching on, "However, each parishioner that was possessed wound up committing one gory sin after another, taking the soul and body of the host with it. Father Carmichael drew the last straw after witnessing one of his parishioners crucify another."

"So this priest," Bobby's interest was piqued, "figured out what was going on and decided to take matters into his own hands."

"With Jesus on his side," Van nodded.

"So what happened?" Sam shrugged his shoulders, not knowing why the exorcism didn't work.

"He had it all under control, when according to him; he was rendered unconscious, by a fallen crucifix, in the middle of finalizing the incantation."

"Maybe God didn't like him interfering," Dean butted in.

"Maybe it wasn't God," Sam countered. Dean threw a fry at his brother. Sam retaliated by smacking him upside the head. Dean jumped the chair and had his brother in a headlock, giving him the king of all noogies. Van exhaled, waiting for the antics to pass. Tapping her foot, she waited and waited until Bobby slammed his foot down, literally. Dean and Sam sat straight and focused mumbling their "I'm sorry" consecutively. Van thanked Bobby and continued.

"He regained consciousness, just in time to finish the exorcism, but not before the demons used all their power to turn the church inside out," she sighed, "the ramifications of the exorcism, literally set the church on fire, burning down and extinguishing each possessed soul."

"Damn," Dean mustered, "how did he make it out alive?"

"That's where I lost him," Van concluded, "the police and fire squad were within the area in minutes and within that time, he just disappeared."

"Until he resurfaced in Massachusetts and just happened to stumble upon your class?" Dean quipped.

"Please, Van," he stood up and headed to the bathroom, "the man's shady."

"I gotta release the demons," he smirked, "so to say."

While Dean exited the room, the rest of them discussed when and how they were going to approach the ex-priest. Bobby suggested that he set up outside his house, do some surveying, so to speak. Van chuckled,

"You mean stalking."

"Nah," Bobby winked, "it's only stalking if he's on the move. And in that case, I'll be on his ass like feathers on a duck."

"You really think he has a way to help out Dean?" Sam turned to Donovan and was serious; she could see it in his puppy dog eyes.

"I don't know, Sam," she put a warm hand on his forearm, "but there's some place we could check out in the meantime."

"What sort of place?" Sam's eyes widened in curiosity.

"The Well of Life," Donovan winked. Bobby murmured a "Well, I'll be damned," and Van smirked. Dean entered the room and stood with his arms folded across his chest,

"No, Bobby, I'm pretty sure, I'm the one who's damned."

"Hell, boy, you're fly's open." Bobby smirked. Dean turned and inched up on heels as he zipped up his jeans. Turning back around, he raised his eyebrows twice,

"So, what's the game plan?"

Donovan filled Dean in on the plan as of late. Bobby was going to set up surveillance on the Carmichael fella and sit by and see what he does or doesn't do. In the meantime, there was a little excursion that Donovan had wanted to go on, but hadn't really found a reason to. With Dean's predicament, however, it could be just the catalyst she needed.

"We leave tomorrow," she finished up her fries and walked over to the bookcase. Retrieving two books, worn and tattered, she tossed one to each of the brothers, "Some reading materials so you're prepared."

"What do we have to prepare for," Dean shrugged, "it's just a wishing well."

"Whoa," Sam flipped open the book and whistled, "Check this out."

"Back in the 1800's, the shakers of an east village in Harvard Massachusetts stumbled upon a natural spring that rivaled the purity of what is now known as Poland Springs. Due to draught, the shakers depended solely on this spring. They began to notice slight changes in their overall well-being and an increase in their life span by 16. Average ages among the shakers were increasing to roughly 70 and 80 years old."

"That mean something?" Dean asked.

"People weren't living to their 70's let alone their 40's back then, Dean," Van filled him in.

"That is something," Dean smiled.

"And something is better than nothing," Sam grinned.

"The Harvard Shakers disappeared," Van lectured them, "leaving the whereabouts of the fountain, a mystery."

"I always wanted to go to Harvard," Dean smugly stated. "I hear the girls are as hot as they are smart."

Van slapped him upside the head and mumbled, "In your dreams, Winchester."

"You're right," Dean winked, "why bother with a Harvard hottie when I've got my own professor right here."

"On that note," Bobby grumbled uncomfortably, "I'll be setting up shop on the outskirts of town," he gave Van a peck on the cheek.

"See you kids around," he walked to the front door but turned back, "Oh, and Dean…"

"Yeah, Bobby?" he raised a brow.

"Try and stay alive, will ya boy?" With that he slammed the front door over, but not before touching the brim of his baseball cap and saying goodbye to Sam. Dean mumbled,

"Yeah, Bobby."


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

Donovan woke earlier than the brothers, the moon was just saying goodnight to the rising sun that was creeping its way over the trees in her backyard. She showered, packed her hiking gear, strapped on her boots, and gathered a few "tools" just in case they ran into something not of this plane. She had heard stories of the infamous spring and the Shakers that had long disappeared; some people attempted to locate it but were hindered by local spirits. One man returned without his group, claiming they were attacked; although no signs of their bodies could be found, Donovan believed it was just his mind getting the best of him. Alone in the woods for hours, let alone, days, would make even the most stable person, lose a few marbles. The trees had a way of moving and following you, paths turned into traps, and unless you had the sun as a guide or a compass, you were dinner. Treks like these, she often referred to her findings on the Blair Witch; her travels had proved useless, although the local lure of the Witch herself was enough to send chills down her spine.

The Shakers were a religious folk; why haunt or harm those that ambled their way onto their land? There had to be more to the story; as to why they just vanished. Was it a sickness? Did the water turn against them; did they fight over it and annihilate one another over ever lasting life? Only this hike would tell. If she knew the brothers at all, she would bet that Sam didn't get much sleep and spent most of his night doing research on the Harvard Shakers. Dean on the other hand, had spent most of his night, trying to keep Van awake; not that she minded, but at two in the morning she kicked him out of her room and told him to rest up. He was going to have to do more walking than driving tomorrow; the Metallicar wouldn't make it over the first impasse before the woods thickened into Shaker territory. Dean wasn't too keen on leaving his baby on the side of some dirt road, but Van assured him that hunting season hadn't started, let alone, most hikers detoured passed the notorious Well region, due to folklore and paranoia. If anything, they would camouflage her with branches and mark a tree to find their way back to her, if anything should go wrong. Dean appeared to let down his guard just a smidge; she had to bribe him with a kiss. Sealing the deal, he shuffled out of her room, and assed out the moment he hit his mattress.

A tentative knock came on her bedroom door and she opened it up, half expecting to see Dean, with that sex driven smirk on his face, but to her chagrin, it was Sam; although he had a similar look in his eye, yet it wasn't about sex. Come to think of it, Van found it humbling to think Sam was a virgin; even if he wasn't. It was easier to see him as a younger brother of her own, instead of the brother of the man she was in love with, ever since pigtails and overalls.

"Mornin' Sammy," she opened the door wider, to allow him in, and he averted his eyes and stammered a good morning right back at her. She furrowed her brow and asked why he insisted on avoiding making eye contact with her. Sam chuckled and pointed to her,

"You do realize you're standing in your bra, right?"

"Oh, hell," she scampered to her bed and threw on a tight fitting long sleeved shirt.

"Talk about not being dressed for the occasion," she stuck out her tongue.

"Yeah," Sam's laughter was contagious and soon they were sitting idly on her bed, talking about the trip that lay ahead of them.

"Do we dare wake Dean up?" Van eyed the door that remained closed over across the hall.

She heard footsteps approaching from the rickety staircase and Dean, shoveling spoonfuls of cereal into his mouth, mumbled,

"What are you two ladies just sitting around for," he raised his spoon, "let's get the show on the road."

"I'm thirsting for some everlasting H2O."

"Huh," Sam and Donovan muttered simultaneously and both uprooted themselves from the bed and followed Dean downstairs. Dean turned to Sammy and hollered,

"Hey, bro, grab my duffel from the room, would ya?"

"You had time to eat but you can't carry your own bags?" Sam shook his head, "Typical."

"While you're at it," Van slapped Sam on the back, "grab mine too, I'm starved."

"There better be a tip involved," Sam retorted as he shuffled his giraffe like legs from one room to another.

"Tip?" Dean shouted from the stairwell, "I'll give ya a tip."

"Don't wear miniskirts after the age of forty."

"Unless you have the legs for 'em," Van winked.

"Hell, you think we're even goin' to make it that far?" Dean quipped.

"Well with that attitude," Van shoved him aside, "we better get your skirt outta the closet."

They ate a quick breakfast, Dean doubled on his, and they packed Dean's car to the disgruntled comments Van was throwing his way. She insisted her jeep would fend the woods better, but Dean insisted that wherever he went, his baby went, and she was loaded with everything from shot guns to iron clubs, from rope to handcuffs.

"Don't ask," Dean slammed the trunk, "just go with it."

Van winked and walked to the passenger side, but Dean tossed her the keys, and she caught them with one quick flick of her wrist. Sam let out a long, exaggerated, whistle and Dean caught his not so subtle subtext. Van held the keys as if she was holding the keys to the kingdom and she gave Dean a _what in the hell are you thinking_ look.

"One," he shot this towards his brother, "don't get all territorial about her driving the car," to which Sam huffed and pocketed his hands into his jeans and shuffled his feet, kicking the tire. "Two," Dean growled, "kick her again and I'll kick you until your ass is sorer than a prisoner at Levinworth," he turned to face a very confused Donovan, "three, you know the way to this place better than any one of us and believe it or not, I trust you behind the wheel."

"Atleast I know you won't be abusing the privilege," he shot Sam a disgruntled look and switched places with Donovan. He opened the side door, flipped the seat handle, kicked Sammy's ass into the backseat, and sat in the passenger seat. Donovan was still standing outside of the driver's side door and Dean honked the horn.

"You do remember how to drive this thing, don't ya?" he smirked. She thought back to the day when they weren't even close to age, and Dean hotwired his father's car and gave Van a lesson in driving. She smirked back as she slid into the leather seat and swiveled comfortably.

"I remember we did more _parking_ than driving," she inserted the key and started the engine. Revving it up, she pulled out of her driveway, the tires kicking up the stones as she peeled out. Sam pouted in the backseat that was until Donovan, out of character, told him he could pick the station on the radio.

"Aw, hell to the no, on that one princess," Dean grunted, "ain't no way the backseat driver gets control over the tunes."

"It's the least you could do," she tapped the steering wheel as Bob Dylan mumbled beautifully over the speakers.

"Throw this in the tape deck," Sammy pulled out a mixed tape and Dean groaned.

However, instead of music, an older woman's voice, transmitted over the speakers, introducing the trio to the mystic wonders of the disappearance of the Harvard Shakers. Multiple people, told their individual stories of trying to discover the Well of Life, but their stories always ended with the same line; it was either a hoax or it was no longer in existence. They drove and listened for over an hour when Donovan pulled the car over and entered a local park.

It was deserted, as she had previously told Dean it would have been, and the eeriness of the empty picnic tables, the scattered paper cups, and an old newspaper, dated a few months back, frolicked across their path like tumbleweeds at a gunslinger's show down. They emptied out the trunk, packing up their gear; Dean grabbed his trusty duffel and threw in a sawed off shotgun, Donovan pocketed a hunter's knife into a shaft on her belt and threw her bag over her shoulder, while Sam packed the mere necessities; salt, matches, flashlights, and another shot gun. They were looking at a map Sam had printed off the computer when Donovan spoke up.

"Say we find this Well, aren't we forgettin' something?"

Sam and Dean exchanged glances and looked back to Van and they both shrugged.

"What?" Dean questioned, "A horse and buggy?"

"No, smart ass," Donovan quipped, "a canteen or something, you know, to transport the water."

"That's if it's even attainable," Sam countered.

"Hey, where's that optimistic crap you usually spew?" Dean shoved him along.

"Probably in the backseat, you jerk," Sam grumbled.

"Bitch!" Dean punched his brother in the arm.

"Ladies!" Van shouted as she folded the map over, "the more you two are at each other's throats, the more I want to spoon my own eyes out."

"Huh," Dean swallowed, "we've seen that happen and let's just say, it wasn't pretty."

"Tell me about it," Sam recalled the monstrous gorging of the eyes and refocused them back to the task at hand.

"There are a few empty soda bottles in the backseat," Sam suggested. Dean looked at him and tilted his head towards the car as if to say move your ass.

"Get 'em," Dean fussed, "and let's get movin'."

They headed towards Maple Hill, westerly of the parking lot, and approximately, one mile from the village itself. Van checked her compass while Sam insisted they just follow the sun, but strange enough, the sky was becoming darker than normal. The sun, blood red, stretched over them in an amber coated sky, the smell of sulfur tickled their nose hairs. Van's compass was going haywire and she slammed it shut and stuffed it into her pocket.

"Back in 1780, a similar phenomenon like the one were walking straight into happened at the Shaker's village. Wild nights, darkness covered the land, and the increasing number of converts didn't distill the stonings and harassment."

"Dark Day," Sam surmised, "I read about it. Wasn't it proven that it was just forest fires that laced the air with smoke and ash?"

"One university used tree circles to date back to the day itself, but scientists haven't completely agreed on their findings."

"While I find this all quite interesting," Dean coughed, "oh, hell, who am I kidding, this doesn't interest me one bit, but what does, is the fancy title of Shaker."

"Think violent and ecstatic bodily agitation while worshipping," Sam informed him.

"I get that a lot," Dean quipped, "especially in the bedroom." "Still, I'm no Shaker."

"That's for damn sure," Van walked on ahead while Dean stopped in his tracks and snorted.

"I'm pretty sure there was bodily agitation last night, ain't that right, Van?"

"Dean," Sam cut in, "let's get back on track, alright?"

"Aw, hell, Sammy boy, you're just jealous."

Up ahead of the brothers, Van had stopped at a fork in the trail and scooped up some dirt. Rubbing it between her fingers, she lifted it up to her nose, and inhaled. Gagging, she dropped it.

"Bear scat," she informed them.

"You tellin' me Yogi and Boo-boo are havin' a picnic while we're out searching for the Holy Grail?"

"Just keep your eyes open and your mouth shut," Van instructed Dean, "if you can manage that."

Dean mimicked her behind her back and Sam chuckled. He leant in towards his older brother and whispered, "Reminds me of mom." Dean slapped his chest, "Nasty bro, now every time I think about…what I think about…I'm going to have mom's face in my head."

"Serves you right." Sam chortled and took three long strides to meet up with Van.

"What you are staring at?" Sam nudged an ever standing still Donovan who had dropped her hands to her sides.

"I'm pretty sure I just saw an old man and woman standing just over that clearing and they didn't look too pleased."

Dean caught the end of the conversation and headed off in the direction of the so called pissed off geriatrics. He had his hand on his shotgun, just in case they weren't the only ones trespassing, when over his head, a black crow cawed and swooped down, nearly scraping his cheek.

"Sonofabitch!" Dean swatted at the bird and turned only to be eye to eye with an older man in what appeared to be old fashioned clothing. His beady eyes and grizzly beard covered his mouth. Dean backed up a few inches and smacked into Sam and Donovan who were huddled close together. The man pointed east where they had travelled from and he spoke,

"Go back."

"I don't think so Gramps," Dean scoffed and cocked the shot gun and aimed it at the man.

"We don't want any trouble," Dean insisted, "but we're here lookin' for the Well and we're not itching to leave, just yet."

"Go back." The men bellowed, a gust of wind, knocked Dean back and the shotgun accidentally went off. Donovan screamed, afraid of the trajectory, but to their surprise, the bullet went straight through the man, and he dissipated into thin air.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Chapter 11

"Jesus, woman!" Dean yanked his arm out of Donovan's vice like grip. She hadn't realized she had reached out for him, but the idea of taking another man's life, left her feeling sick.

"Sorry," she mumbled and aligned her features to resemble something more of a stoic woman than that of what Dean liked to call, "mamby pambies".

"So," Sam nodded, "looks like they don't want us anywhere near the Well."

"Really?" Dean shot him an acerbic remark, "What gave you that idea?"

"Gales of wind," Sam shrugged, "disappearing like a puff of smoke," he smirked, "I dunno, Dean, you pick."

"I'd opt for the ever foreboding, _go baaaack,_" Donovan retorted, "if you want my opinion."

Dean huffed and proceeded to head deeper into the woods. He was mumbling just loud enough for them to hear as they picked up their pace, but the closer they got, they realized he wasn't mumbling, he was ranting.

"Go back, my ass," his lips twitched, "never came across a ghost that will keep me from gettin' what I'm after."

Donovan slapped Sam's chest, "He do that a lot?"

"Yeah, it's right up there with bitchin'," Sam winked and called out to his brother,

"turn left at that cross in the path."

"Cross?" Dean raised his hands indicating he had no idea what Sam was talking about. Sam jogged ahead and brushed off some growth from a marker next to a large maple. "Two sticks, placed just so," Sam smirked, "you know, forming a cross."

"Shaker Territory," Van noted as she checked out the ancient timber cross, "there should be others, of the sedimentary family, similar to stone markers."

"So," Dean huffed yet again, "you think Shaker man over there was the real deal or something the locals have strummed up to keep us from trespassing?"

"Looked real to me," Sam offered, "but he definitely wasn't a ghost echo."

"Ghost echo?" Van furrowed her brows in perplexity.

"Yeah, we witnessed a few a while back, while we were scoping out the Morton House," Dean dismissed her with a wave.

"So, these echoes," Van questioned, "they harmful?"

"Nah," Sam reassured her, "they are the spirits of those who fail to realize they are dead."

"They relive their death repetitively," he continued, "and if you can get through to them, they'll see the light."

"Well," Van huffed, "didn't look like he wanted the light that badly."

"So Shaker Joe," Dean smirked, "wants us to go back, which means we have to be gettin' close."

"I'd say," Van took out her map, "from where we're standing, I'd say we have to go up and over that hill where Ma and Pa were looming."

"So what are we waitin' for," Sam grinned with impish glee, "let's hump it."

Donovan ripped off a piece of tattered rag, red in color, and tied it to the first tree, that housed the cross as a point of reference. Dean looked at her quizzically and she shouted up the hill,

"In case we lose our way."

Dean shook his head and grumbled, "Amateur."

"Not like it hasn't happened before," Sam remarked, "I think it's a good idea."

"Of course you do, you're the All American Boy Scout for Christ's sake," Dean rolled his eyes.

"I come in handy," Sam tilted his head and smirked.

"More like you're the handbag to my ever classic, semi rock and roll, couture." Dean dramatized his wardrobe which consisted of a skull cap, a black Rolling Stones t-shirt, and frayed jeans. He stomped the dirt with his worn in leather boots, which Dean referred to as his _shit kickers._

"What are you sayin', Dean?" Sam growled, growing impatient. He didn't like being referred to as baggage, let alone, Dean's shadow.

"Don't test me boy," Dean took a threatening step forward, but Donovan couldn't help but let out a chuckle. Sam had about a head over Dean, maybe more. She didn't know what Dean was thinking, but Sam could just barrel down on him if he chose. However, that wasn't Sam's way. Donovan quickly intervened and tugged Sam out of the impending, albeit, stupid equation.

"C'mon, Sammy," Donovan pushed him along, "let's not get Dean all fired up, just yet."

"If we come across anymore geriatrics, he'll need all his strength."

Sam and Donovan laughed at Dean's expense as he looked on at the both of them, his eyes, set deep on the edge of insanity, displeasure, and annoyance. Dean mumbled as he brushed up to them,

"Hardy har har."

They trekked the terrain for about a quarter of a mile, before finding another marker. This time it was inscribed with olden lettering, _W.C.H._, to which Van smiled, almost relieved. She pointed east and mentioned that the marker represented the old Worchester County Highway, which if she recalled correctly, was indicative that the aqueducts would be close by. If they found the aqueduct, they'd find the Well. _If they found the Well, they could save Dean, momentarily even, giving him more time to find a way out of the deal._ Interrupting her fantasy like thoughts, about thirty black crows hovered over head, nesting in the trees. Their blood chilling caws stopped the trio short. Last time they came across a crow, it harbored a geriatric, yet menacing, ghost. What would a multitude of crows bring?

"This can't be good," Sam whispered out of the corner of his thin lips.

"How far do we got?" Dean nudged Donovan, who sucked in her breath, and pulled out the map, trying too hard to be quiet. The paper rattled, causing the crows to mockingly laugh at them, as if they knew where they were headed. She scanned the map and noted that the aqueduct should be about ten yards away. Once they found that, they follow it, she trailed the map with her index finger,

"Route 2 should be to our right," she tapped the paper, "we keep that in our peripheral, we should make it to the Well."

The crows pumped their wings, stirring up a twister of leaves and dirt, their raucous cawing, made their ears bleed, literally. Dean grabbed at his ear and looked at the palm of his hand, drops of syrupy blood, made him grit his teeth.

"Damn birds," he growled, "next thing you know they'll start pecking at our eyeballs, like in Hitchcock's movie."

"Thanks for the mental picture, you moron," Sam shook his head. Donovan mumbled,

"I _hated_ that movie."

"It's like their watching us," she noted, "it's sick."

"What," Dean smirked, "you're not into voyeurism?"

"Are you?" Van poked Dean in the shoulder. Dean raised his eyebrows in unison and winked,

"I like a 'lil kinky every now and then."

"So," Sam was a bit sickened, "back on topic."

"Right," Van nodded, "is this mystical or what?"

"Only one way to find out," Dean grabbed at his duffel and took a step forward; they soon followed in his footsteps. They continued to walk, at a slow, but steady pace, glancing back at the crows. For a while, it all seemed to bode well, the birds lay dormant, their glassy eyes, focused on the threesome. It didn't last long, however, for as they approached the aqueduct, the crows took flight, and hovered overhead. One ballsy little fellow, swooped down, and nipped behind Van's ear. Another, followed suit, and pecked at the back of Sam's neck.

"Damn it," Van knelt down and hefted up a piece of fallen timber, took a batter's pose, and swung at the incoming birds. She sent one flying towards Sam into a tree, its little neck, breaking.

"Nice shot," Sam thanked her, and ducked the swarming birds. Dean pulled out a gun and began to fire at them. He began to laugh as he took one after another down.

"I was always good at Duck Hunt," he smirked, reminiscent of what little childhood he had.

Donovan kept swinging until her arm grew tired, but one crow managed to take a piece of her fleshy cheek. It pulled at it like raw meat and she cried out in anguish. A shot went off, too close to her face, but the crow was gone; dead in fact, at her feet. She felt the warmth of the blood dripping from the wound on her face and tasted the iron of her own blood. Spitting into the dirt, she turned to Dean.

"Thanks?" she furrowed her brow, unsure if he was just a lucky shot or not.

"That's some bite," he pulled out a bandana and brought it up to her face. He took her hand and applied pressure to the wound. "Keep that there." She nodded. They surveyed the area and took note of all the fallen birds. It was eerily quiet. Sam wrapped a strip of cloth around his neck to seal his own wounds, and shook his head in disapproval.

"Why didn't they attack you," he huffed.

Dean chuckled and tucked the gun into his waistband, "Because I was packing?"

To her left, Donovan picked up some movement on the ground, and turned to the guys,

"Um, hate to break this up," she edged in closer to the brothers, "but they're coming back to life."


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Each of the crows slowly began to inch their way back into the land of the living. The trio edged in closer to one another and Dean smirked,

"It's like _Land of the Living Dead_."

"Those were zombies, you moron," Sam shook his head.

"Correct me if I'm wrong Mr. Stanford educated," Dean turned on his heel to look up at his younger brother, "zombies eat people right?"

"Technically," Sam shrugged, not sure of where Dean was going with all of this.

"Well, _technically_," Dean scrunched his nose at Sam, "they saw you and Van as one big human smorgasbord."

Van, leaving the two brothers to quarrel as usual, walked over to the one crow as it was shaking its feathers loose. She couldn't believe that the one crow she had sent flying into a tree, was convulsing, its tiny neck, which when snapped, had immediately killed it, was now straining the very same neck up at her and its cold, dark, eyes were almost laughing.

"Dean!" Sam exasperated and threw his hands up in the air, "Birds do not just come back to life and start pecking at humans."

"Zombie birds do," Dean nodded defiantly. "And the way I see it, if you aren't nice, I'm not going to stop the next one from munching away at your baby fat."

"My what?" Sam touched his sides and pulled at his nonexistent flab.

"Sucker." Dean jested.

"Jerk!" Sam pushed him and Dean retaliated by smacking him upside the head, his shaggy hair upturned.

"Bitch!"

"Sucker," Van echoed as she eyed the crow, "that's it!" It was as if she was stuck in a cartoon. She remembered a scene where the Roadrunner bleeped a few times and watched as Wylie Coyote fell to his umpteenth death, turning into a huge lollipop with the word _Sucker_ on it. Instead, the proverbial light bulb went off over Van's head and she turned to the fellas,

"Hey, you two!" She began to rummage in her bag and pulled out a small dart gun. She waved it over her head to get their attention. They quit their jibber jabbering and looked at her as if she were crazy.

"Hey, hey, hey," Dean put up his hands in mock defense, "we were only playin' around. No need to tranq our asses."

"It's not for you," she pointed to the crow, "it's for him."

"You want to tranquilize something that belongs in Pet Cemetery?" Sam was feeling his oats, so to speak, and Van couldn't help but chuckle.

"Exactly," she removed the tranquilizer dart from its magazine clip and hovered over the bird. She quickly grabbed at it with her left hand while she injected the bird with the other. The bird was down for the count.

"So, what now, Jack Hanna?" Dean raised an eyebrow.

"I've got a friend back at the University who can run some tests." She wrapped the bird in an old t-shirt and stuffed it into her knapsack. Sam, having an epiphany, ran over to her and motioned to Dean.

"So you think the reason these birds are coming back to life, doesn't have to do anything with magic," he reasoned, "but the Well."

"Exactly." Donovan nodded, glad that at least one of the brothers was catching on.

"If they drank from the Well, seeing how there really aren't any other water supplies around here for miles, we may just have stumbled upon our first lead."

"Well, I'll be," Dean pulled her into a rather awkward hug, "I'm surrounded by geniuses." He high fived his brother and thought for a second, that maybe, just maybe if they found this Well, they might be able to put off his contract for just a bit longer. That is, until they figured out who held it.

"Now all we need is something to compare the test results to," Sam conjectured.

"Right," Van agreed, "let's find that Well and get our samples."

"Uh, by the way," Dean raised an eyebrow and directed his question towards Van, "why did you pack a tranquilizer gun?"

"In case we came across bears," Van retorted.

"Or zombie birds," Sam laughed.

"Either way," Van winked, "it was handy, don't you think?"

XXX

Back in town, Bobby was tailing the ex priest and had stumbled upon his tiny, reclusive, home. The man wasn't in Bobby's sights for the moment, and he ascertained that he may have stepped into the bathroom. Bobby hated the binoculars, but he promised he wouldn't scare the guy, and by keeping a safe distance, he was keeping his word to Donovan. A small light had turned on from what Bobby could only guess was the basement. He couldn't see any movement and he cursed himself, knowing he was about to break his promise. How was he supposed to gather anything on the guy if he couldn't see what in Sam Hill he was up to? So he pushed open his truck's door and ambled his way through the thickets and settled himself flesh against the man's siding. The window to the basement was a bit clouded over from dirt and dust, but thankfully that was all that was keeping Bobby from gaining access into it. He knelt down and peered into the tiny, square, window and watched as the ex priest began to light what Bobby had witnessed to be, ceremonial candles.

"Now what in all that is Holy is this guy up to?" he mumbled to himself.

The sound of cars pulling up alongside the Carmichael residence caused Bobby to panic. He took out his cell phone, equipped with a camera, and eked his way around the corner of the house to take some snapshots of Carmichael's nightly visitors. Three women, two men, and one acne prone adolescent, scrambled out of their various vehicles and entered the house via the trap door that led to the cellar. Wondering why they would enter so discreetly, raised suspicion in Bobby, and he went back to take a gander at what was going in the basement. He peered through the tinted window and was shocked to see them dressed in thick, crimson, ceremonial robes. Carmichael stood in the middle of the six who congregated in a circle around him and they began to chant. A flame from one of the candles flickered high and bright and then simmered back to its original state. From what Bobby could hear, Carmichael was speaking Latin, and that tipped Bobby's scales from normal to paranormal. Not nearly close enough to hear word for word, Bobby made his way back to his truck and dialed Dean's cell. Quick to answer and a bit out of breath from the hike that they were now enduring as daytime neared dusk, Dean listened intently to what Bobby had to report.

"Back it up," Dean motioned for the others to stop, "who's doing what, now?"

Dean held the phone away from his ear as Bobby's gruff voice hollered through the tiny receiver,

"That Carmichael fella ain't who Van says he is."

Dean eyed Donovan who stood, steadfast, with her feet planted firmly on the ground, and her hands on her hips.

"Why's that?" she asked. Dean attempted to repeat her question, but Bobby cut him off.

"I ain't deaf boy," he huffed, "I heard her loud and clear."

Dean listened as Bobby relayed what he saw and told him to tell his brother that he'd meet them back at Donovan's to upload the pictures and see if they could get some names to the faces. Dean nodded and okayed Bobby about three times before hanging up.

"Seems your friendly, family, priest, is nothing but a sneaky, chanting, creepy son'a'bitch."

"Bobby heard chanting?" she inquired, unfamiliar with the ex priest's regimen.

"From what he could hear, it was Latin, they were cloaked in robes, and it appeared to be paranormal."

"Paranormal, how?" Sam interjected, swatting at a mosquito that landed on his near perfect skin.

"Candles going up in flames, eyes rollin', speaking in tongues."

"You two head back," Sam nodded, "I'll get that sample from the Well, and meet you guys back at the house."

"No way," Dean shook his head adamantly, "we ain't splittin' up, not with the creepy geriatrics on our tails." "No way, no how."

"Dean," Van pulled him aside, "Sam can handle it."

He pulled her tightly into him, so his lips brushed up against her ear, and he growled, "I'm not fixin' on leavin' him out here alone. It's my job to protect him."

"Like it's ours to protect you?" she tackled back. "Like it or not, he has to grow up sometime."

About to reconsider, Dean turned to reluctantly tell Sam the plan, but Sam was no longer in their midst; Van's pack was gone too, along with the map. All that was left was Dean's duffel. Dean shouted into the woods, but his voice just echoed into emptiness. Sam was long gone.

"Stubborn son'a'bitch." Dean hefted his bag over his shoulder and looked out into the woods one last time before conceding to Donovan.

"Runs in the blood line, doesn't it?" she smirked, but Dean didn't want to hear another word. He already had his father's ominous voice bouncing off the nerve receptors in his brain:

"Don't let him outta yer sight, boy, I'm countin' on you while I'm gone."


	13. Chapter 13

As Dean and Van humped it back towards the picnic area in complete and eerie silence, Sam was trekking his way, via the map he swiped from Donovan, along with her bag. He was pretty proud of himself back there; he smirked as he stepped over some fallen trees, their stumps mutilated from termites and other scavengers. Pulling the five fingered swap while his brother and she went back and forth on how poor Sam wasn't going to go off on his own, went smoothly. The only thing that did concern Sam as he followed the markings on the map was getting back to Van's house; at that precise moment, they were slamming the doors shut to the Impala. He scanned the map for the nearest highway and penciled a circle around Route 24. There was a truck stop near by and if he had any luck, someone would be willing to pick him up and drive him back to the house.

The map indicated that Sam had about a mile and half to go before reaching the abandoned Shaker Well. It was getting colder and darker as he trudged forward, his flashlight in one hand leading him along what appeared to be a hidden, but worn path. The hairs on the back of his neck, sprung to life, as he heard twigs being broken underfoot. He reached into his bag and swung his rifle around, scanning the perimeter from left to right. He had stuffed the end of the flashlight between his teeth and when he finishing scanning, it dropped with a dull thud to the earthen ground, its glass breaking, and its light diminishing. Standing in front of him, was not only the elderly man they had encountered before the crows attacked, but a woman as well. They stared at Sam, with disapproving eyes, the woman kneading her hands together as the man inched closer to Sam.

"Not another step," Sam stuttered, his voice shaky, but his rifle steady.

"Son," the grizzly man spoke, "go back before she comes."

"Please, Sam," the ghostly woman spoke his name, "do as my husband says."

"How do you know my name," Sam questioned the woman, whose eyes fluttered, knowing she had said too much. She turned towards her husband and he sighed, causing the trees around Sam to sway and the leaves to dance.

"We all know about you and your brother," the apparition spoke, "we know about his deal, a fate we both suffered years before you were even born."

"So you know who holds his contract?" Sam gritted his teeth as he lowered his weapon.

"She is too powerful, too cunning," they nodded, "she isn't one to be reckoned with."

"Years ago, our people, drank from this very same Well," they pointed to a clearing where a stone fountain was overwrought with vines and foliage.

"But she came, offered us eternal life, in exchange for our waters," the woman appeared saddened by this recollection, "but it was our life source, so our village leaders denied her."

"Thus dooming us, tainting our waters, our bodies, once vessels of purity, became hosts for evil."

Sam wondered who this "She" was, why she went after the innocent, why she sentenced the Shakers to eternal damnation.

"The sickness spread," their ghostly figures became distorted in front of Sam's eyes, "our people ravaged one another, until we were nothing but dust."

"Even our water, ran dry."

Sam did a double take; the spring itself was in fact running, pure water, insufficient droplets at a time, but it wasn't dry. Not even close.

"Your Well works," Sam shook his head, "we saw what it can do, if it can help my brother…" but he was cut off by the man once more.

"It cannot help your brother!" he bellowed, "She has damned everyone and anything that drinks from the spring."

"The crows," Sam mentioned, "did they drink from it?"

"Yes," the woman hissed, "and you saw what has come of it?"

"Evil predators, feeding on those who disturb the life source of the Well."

"Who is she?" Sam demanded, "If the water can't save my brother, give me her name!"

"No," the woman shook her head defiantly, "no, please, do not ask that of us."

Sam cocked the rifle and aimed it towards the stone foundation of the Well, and demanded the name of the demon that held Dean's contract. They watched as the foundation shattered, the waters flowing more freely by Sam's shot. The water began to encircle the ghosts, swirling around their feet, steam rising from the ground. Before Sam knew it, the ghosts were being sucked into the swirling waters, their souls being sucked into Hell. Not a second before the water ran dry, the man, bellowed a name, a name which sent all the birds and critters to scurry in all four directions; Lilith!

Sam watched in utter disbelief as the two ghosts disappeared along with the Well's water. Standing above the spot where they vanished, Sam reached down and picked up the remnants of the Well. Nothing but dirt and dust, sifted through his fingers. Thinking he had to get a hold of his brother fast, Sam took out his cell and dialed Dean. An annoying beeping caused Sam to curse under his breath as he looked at the screen on his phone. No service. Time was wasting and their one chance at saving Dean just evaporated right before Sam's eyes.

"Figures," Sam huffed. He began to walk back towards the way he came, holding his phone out in front of him and above his head, hoping to get a signal. With no luck, he took a detour and headed for that truck stop he circled on the map. An hour later, Sam emerged from the woods and his feet hit solid, tarred, road. Cars and trucks whizzed by him, his hair whipped back by the sheer force. Sam edged his way closer to a spot that was lit by a highway sign, advertising a museum dedicated to the Shakers. He thumbed his finger outward and shivered as he waited for a ride. Still no luck with his cell phone, Sam was about to give up on hitchhiking, but a truck pulled up along side the road and halted. Sam shook his head and walked towards the familiar truck.

"Don't you know it's dangerous to be out here in the middle of nowhere, boy?" Bobby's voice cut through over the raucous music.

"Never know what kind of creeps are looking for a joy ride."

Sam raised an eyebrow and chuckled, "I'm betting my money that you're not one of those creeps."

"Hmph," the man grumbled, "you ain't got no money." The older man smirked as Sam opened the back door.

"Bobby," Sam threw his gear into the backseat, and pulled the passenger side door to a close, "what are you doin' out this way?"

"Thought you were meeting back at Van's?"

"Did that, son," Bobby pulled back onto the highway, "but we got worried about your sorry behind and drew straws on who went back out lookin' for ya."

Sam laughed. If he didn't know any better, that's probably not too far off from what really went down.

"Let's get back to the house," Sam threw his head back into the seat and looked over at Bobby, "I got us the name."

"Hell, boy," Bobby grunted, "the name of what?"

"The demon that holds Dean's contract." Sam narrowed his brows; with only a couple weeks left, they had a lot of research to do on this Lilith.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14

While Bobby and Sam drove back through the winding roads towards Van's house, she and Dean were standing above the sample she had taken from the crow. The vial that contained the bird's liquid essence was now full of what could only be summed up as dust and ash. Van had the tube in her hand, examining it from all sides and scrunched up her nose.

"What the hell is this?" she tossed the vial to Dean who caught it with one hand and shook it. The remnants of what was liquid now sounded as if he were rattling a pepper shaker.

Dean didn't have a retort, snarky or not, and he just tossed the vial back. As he did so, his back pocket began to vibrate and he reached for his cell. Nodding to Van, he mouthed, "It's Sam," to her before answering.

"So I'm guessing you already know that the Well was a waste of our time, lil bro," Dean sighed into the phone. Sam's response however, wasn't somber, and Dean's forehead became lined with apprehension.

"Slow your role, Sammy," Dean shifted his weight from one foot to the next, "you got what, now?"

Sam was talking a mile a minute and even Dean couldn't get it all, so he told him to wait, while he put him on speaker.

"Keep your panties on, Sam," he clicked the cell so Van could hear him as well, "you're on speaker."

Silence greeted Van and she raised her hands in confusion. Dean huffed and ordered his brother to speak.

"Start at the beginning, motor mouth, and slow it down for us, would ya?"

Sam began to rattle off his encounter with the ghostly apparitions and how the Well had been cursed by a demon nearly a few thousand years ago, in retribution for the defiance of the Shakers. Key words caught Dean's attention; _cursed, demon, contract, and ashes._

"Hold the phone," Dean told Sam to repeat his last words.

"Ashes?" Sam's voice squeaked through the static of the phone. Van couldn't help but smile at Sam's cracking voice.

"Before that, you nitwit," Dean slouched forward on his haunches, "something about a contract."

"I got a name on the demon that's holding your contract," Sam reiterated, his emphasis on the words were laced with hope.

"Have Van run a search on Lilith," Sam ordered his older brother, "better yet, have that Carmichael there for when we get back."

Dean rolled his eyes, "I think one freak in the house is all we need," Van swatted his chest, to which Dean grunted, "but the more the merrier, right?"

Sam disconnected their conversation and Dean pocketed his cell; Van had already picked up her landline and phoned the ex priest. She told him in brief what they needed and he told her he'd rush over as soon as he gathered some of the books they would need to grasp the origin of this _Lilith. _

"He's on his way," Van put a hand on Dean's shoulder, "we'll figure this out."

"The sooner the better," Dean squared his jaw, "my days are runnin' out." Van gave Dean a look of pity and he caught her.

"Don't." he clenched his jaw, "Not you too." Van nodded and acquiesced to his plea.

"I know I've heard the name Lilith before," Van appeared to be talking more to herself than Dean and he watched her walk to her library that housed over a thousand books, rather ancient and second hand. Some, Dean recognized were first editions. Others were in Latin. Van grabbed a rather large, obtuse, leather bound book from one of the upper shelves and blew the dust off its cover.

"Ain't she some old bird, that those hippie chicks based a tour on?" Dean offered a bit too loosely and Van tilted her head,

"The Lilith Fair?" she scrunched her nose and shot a surprised look in his direction, "In honor of the first female creation?"

Dean nodded and before Van could ask just why in hell he had known about it, he filled in the blanks.

"Sam met some chick who was obsessed with Sarah McLaughlin," Dean rolled his eyes, "you know the type," to which Donovan shook her head, no. "I had to rescue his sorry ass before they converted him into a full on 'in touch with his emotions' pansy."

"Wait," Dean waved his hand towards Donovan and asked her to repeat herself, the part about the first female created by God, before he waded in the pool of memories.

"You got that wrong, Eve was the first woman created," Dean interjected, "I'd never forget the woman that tempted that poor bastard with an apple," he smirked, "figuratively or not."

"An apple," Dean snorted, "the guy had no cajones." Van concurred.

"No," Van's eyes widened as she had an 'Ah, ha' moment, "Eve was fashioned out of Adam's ribs, because Lilith denied God's request that she be subservient to her mate. God banished her from Eden, denying her existence."

"You're telling me she really was the first advocate for women's rights," Dean shook his head, "and the High and Mighty just sent her away?"

"Didn't the Big Guy know a woman that tough wasn't going to just back down?"

Vans shuffled through the pages of the old leather book abound in ancient writings and Latin searching for an excerpt on Lilith. She ran her slender index finger down the pages and up the others, mumbling to herself,

"Where are you, Lilith," she continued to scroll until she tapped her finger on the stained pages with finality,

"Got you."

Dean took a few purposeful strides to her side and she began to read,

"_According to Jewish folklore, The Haggada contained writings devoid in the New Testament, regarding Genesis, Lilith was in fact made in the image of God himself, as was her counterpart, Adam, who was made in the likeness of God; perfect body, beautiful and strong. Fashioned from the same soil and likeness of God, she regarded herself as an equal of Adam, not inferior as Adam had wanted."_

"Figures," Dean muttered and Van smacked him with the back of her hand, a small feigned surrender, he motioned for her to continue.

"_Adam's refusal of her demands for being treated as an equal led to her abandoning Adam from the Garden of Eden." _

Van continued and chuckled,

"Here's something you and Adam have in common," she raised her eyebrows as her eyes laughed,

"_Lilith refused to lie below Adam while having sex."_

Dean pursed his lips and shook his head,

"Sue me," he shrugged his shoulders, "I was naïve and young back then," he smirked, "and not to rain on your parade, but last night, just _where _were you when we were," but Van cut him off,

"Shut it," color rose in her cheeks and Dean knew by that small notion, that in the bedroom, both of them were equals.

"Some women can have their cake _and_ eat it too," Dean winked.

"Well, Lilith felt differently," Van's color drained from her face as she continued to read,

"_She spoke God's name, sprouted wings, and flew from Eden, to the Red Sea, where she took lovers of the demons who resided there and spawned their demonic offspring, thus setting forth the abundance of demons in existence."_

"Of course," Dean's jaw tightened, "of course there'd be demons."

"_God commanded she be brought back to Eden, but she refused the Angels directives, that she be brought back or God would smite her offspring. Angered with Him, she swore on the name of God, to seize the souls of infants."_

"Talk about a woman scorned," Dean swallowed.

"_The only way to ward off her murderous binge was to adorn the newborns with amulets inscribed with the names, Senoy, Sansenoy, and Semangel."_

In the midst of their findings, Dean and Donovan did not hear the incessant knocking on the front door. Nor did they hear the footsteps of their guest. He rounded the corner and stood in the doorway of her extensive library. He removed his glasses, pinched the bridge of his nose, and clucked his tongue.

"Those names have not been spoken in ages, my dear Donovan," Carmichael shook his head in disdain, "do you have any idea what you may bring to your doorstep if you dabble in things you cannot control?"

Van dropped her text and Dean turned to the intruder with a handgun raised to kill. Van put a hand on Dean's outstretched, muscular forearm, and had her doubts. Instead of welcoming the man, Van pulled a knife from a leather sheath on her belt and proffered it towards the man.

"Carmichael," Van countered, "did you forget the etiquette of entering one's home?"

He replaced his glasses and his eyes sparkled with laughter,

"I knocked," he shrugged, "so therefore, no, I did not forget."

"This," Dean waved his hand, still clutching the gun, in the ex priest's direction, "this guy's the priest?" Carmichael stood a tall, athletic build of 6', his auburn hair, hung below his ears, with a few grays spiraling out of whack. He appeared younger than what they had been told and seeing him arose suspicions in Dean.

"Sorry to disappoint," Carmichael took a step forward and offered his hand, "you must be Dean."

"Not so fast," Dean waved the gun, "take another step and I'll send your Latin spewing ass to Hell myself."

Thinking to himself, was he that damn transparent, the priest slowly smiled, "So, you've done your research."

"Always," Dean snickered and stuffed his revolver into the back of his jeans. As Carmichael began to take another step, his body snapped back to its former spot. Transfixed on the two in front of him, he raised his hands, and snickered,

"I'm _not _a demon," to which Dean snidely retorted, "ain't one to take a man at his word, Padre."

Carmichael took off his jacket and began to unbutton the cuffs to his shirt. Rolling each sleeve back, Dean noticed a small tattoo on the man's inner forearm. Dean rushed to him and pointed an angry finger at the black ink on the man's skin.

"Where'd you get that?"

The man eyed his arm's decor and looked from Van and back again. Dean shook his head,

"You're telling me you inked a priest?"

Van denied ever touching the man, let alone giving him a tattoo of the rune she too had been sealed with for protection.

"Ex," the man rubbed at his wrist.

"After weeks of spending time in her class," he began to explain, "things became much clearer to me, than when I was ordained."

"What sort of things," Dean growled.

"Omens," he presented, "something you and your brother research, isn't that right?"

"Storms, lightening, hot spots," he continued, "am I wrong?"

"Anything you didn't tell this guy," Dean barked and Van shrugged nonchalantly.

"Not really."

"After the incident at the church," his face became much more hallow and ashen, "I turned to Donovan for her assistance."

He didn't have to say much more. Dean understood why the man turned from his religion and baptized himself into the supernatural.

Carmichael scanned the wooden floor for the pentagram, yet saw nothing. Dean pointed to the ceiling and the older man huffed. The seal was etched into the wooden planks of the aged room, lacquered to seal in the brick dust as well as salt.

"Brick dust," he surmised and Van nodded. Which he began to remind her,

"Does it really matter," the man's voice became softer, saddened almost, "will an overabundance of brick dust, holy water, and magix, really save him?"

The man blanched at his fauxpas and looked to Dean, who narrowed his eyes and grit his teeth.

"I meant us," he stuttered, but Dean slapped his hands to his chest and pulled a flask out, twisted off the platinum cap and threw the water into the man's face. Carmichael blinked several times, yet nothing happened. His face didn't begin to melt off, and Dean felt a twinge of disappointment.

"Huh," he cast Van a look that she knew all too well and tossed the book to an old, leather, reading chair, "what'd Bobby say again?"

"You mean the older man who was sneaking around my home?" Carmichael chuckled and Dean edged in closer,

"Where is he, you Sonofabitch?"

"Dean?" two voices bellowed from the doorway, "Van?"

Bobby and Sam's heavy footfalls lead to the library and they were both armed with a rifle.

"Bobby!" Dean asked incredulously, "What the hell?"

"Something ain't right about this man, boy," Bobby snarled his distrust towards the man both Van and Dean had trapped.

"We got it under control, Bobby," Van pointed to the ceiling and Bobby pursed his lips and muttered,

"A Devil's Trap?" he scanned the intricate symbols and care that went into the trap and realized it was one he hadn't seen before.

"A variation I picked up from my trip to Costa Rica," Van winked, "works on nondemonics."

"Nice," Sam complimented her, not lowering the rifle.

"Are you going to let me out anytime soon?" Carmichael waved his hands. Dean looked from the ex priest to Van and made his decision.

"Ain't happenin'," he pushed past Bobby and motioned for him to follow.

"Dean," Sam tried to talk sense into his older brother, but Dean just shook his head.

"Until we figure out what this," he scanned the man from head to toe, "is up to, his ass is staying right here."

The ex priest began to chant a few lines in Latin and the trap began to glimmer, causing them all to look at one another with curiosity. However, the man was not as proficient, for Sam and Bobby, countered his incantation with one of their own. Carmichael fell to his knees and he cursed the trap. Sam raised his eyebrows in amazement and Bobby slapped his aged hand onto Sam's shoulder for a job well done.

"I wouldn't try that again," Van threatened and Carmichael seethed.

"I only wanted to help," he tried to follow her to the doorway but was bounced back onto his rear-end. Swatting at his sore bottom, the man looked up at Van with saddened eyes.

"You're goin' to stay here, until I can convince them otherwise," she turned on her heel and gave the man a scrutinizing look, "You had me fooled."

"It was not my desire to trick you," he looked sincere and Van felt sorry for him. However that didn't last long; the last time she fell for that old trick, lives were lost.

"You say you want to help," she addressed him and the man nodded, "Yes, of course, why else would I offer my services?"

"That's what I'm going to find out," Van tilted her head as if to say, you'll regret this if your story doesn't pan out, and she turned and walked away, leaving him stranding in the middle of her library; trapped like a traitor.

Dean, literally had his upper torso inside her fridge, pushing condiments and leftovers aside. He stopped when she knocked on the door to the refrigerator.

"Hey," he mumbled, "about that," he pointed a finger to the wall, indicating the wall that housed the library on the other side,

"I didn't know Dean," she raised her hands in mock surrender, "I swear."

"Ain't yer fault," Bobby sent the words her way, after swallowing down a mouthful of beer, "wise of you two to take precautions, though."

"That was all Van," Dean gave her the credit she deserved, "it wasn't hard to convince her."

"I'm not taking any chances, Dean," she twisted off the cap to her own beer, "not now."

"So what was he mumbling about back there, before you two shut him up?" Sam looked to Bobby and sighed,

"He was praying," and Dean soured, "praying to what?"

"God," Bobby deadpanned, "that man was praying to God."

"So, what do we do now?" they looked to Bobby for guidance and he shrugged, "Hell if I know. I stopped believing in God years ago."


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15

Two days after finding out the name of the demon who held Dean's contract, the Winchesters took to their respective corners; Dean in the kitchen, mulling over what to add to his cheese-steak and Sam in Van's extensive library, which also held the illustrious Carmichael.

Van had taken a day to meet a colleague at the University. Despite the water they drew from the well and how it had turned to ash, the bird, she had tranquilized, was still in solid form. With any luck, perhaps her friend could determine just what was going on in that little feathered body. Bobby took his truck over to Carmichael's residence to find something on the man that wasn't a demon, but had powerful connections to the supernatural. Bobby was impressed with the man's Latin but was still bewildered why a man in his position, shunned by the church, would continue to pray to a God that left him alone all those years back. Then again, after dealing with zombies, witches, vampires, and ghouls, was a man connected to God any more unusual.

Sam had his head in one of Van's books when something out of the corner of his eye began to glimmer. Swatting at it, the light flickered and faded and Sam looked around the room, wondering if Carmichael had seen it too. For a second time, the light flickered in Sam's eyes and as bright as it was, it continued to shine on one passage in the book he was reading and thinking nothing of it, turned the page. Without warning, one of the old wrought iron windows blew open, tossing papers into the air, and pages in books to turn over. Sam jumped up and slammed the window closed; bent to pick up what could only have been papers Van had been grading before their arrival and stacked them haphazardly back on the desk. Carmichael clucked his tongue and Sam shot him a disparaging look.

"It's a bit annoying at first," he spoke in riddles, "but you get accustomed to them all the same."

"Get used to what?" Sam questioned the man, but he only shook his head and pointed to his ear,

"You have to _listen_ Sam," he cocked his head to the side and smiled putting emphasis on the word, "you never listen."

"Oh, I listen," Sam grumbled and turned his back to the man.

"Do you?" Carmichael persisted. The small fleeting lights flickered again and he smiled, tentatively.

Frustrated, Sam threw the book down, and stormed out of the Library, running straight into Dean. The slopping sounds of Dean's sandwich splattered both men's shirts and Dean grumbled,

"Oh, come on!" he picked up an oozing piece of cheese and some onions, piled them into his mouth, and looked at his brother who seemed even more agitated.

"You're such a spaz!"

"And you're disgusting," Sam fanned his shirt while dismissing his brother's animalistic eating styles.

"Where were you running off to," Dean spoke with his mouthful and Sam rolled his eyes.

"I just had to get out of there," he thrusted a thumb towards the library, "the lighting's kind of hinky."

"Ain't nothing wrong with the lights," Dean took a step into the vast library and scanned the room, stopping to look at Carmichael, who had his eyes closed, but appeared to be talking to himself.

"But something's definitely wrong with him," Dean closed the door to the library over and raised an eyebrow.

"Think he's got a few screws loose up there," Dean tapped his temple twice, and waited for Sam to answer. However, Sam watched the man with a careful eye and turned his ear towards the room. Sam's face became stricken while he strained to listen.

"You're not strokin' out on me, are you?" Dean slapped Sam back to the present and Sam swallowed.

"I'll be damned," he murmured to which Dean shook his head and echoed his sentiment,

"No, that'd be me, remember?" However, Sam ran back to the stack of books he was perusing and waited for a sign.

"You heard them," Carmichael smiled as he watched Sam stand sentry over the passages.

"I don't know who I heard," Sam looked across to the man, "but I heard something."

"They don't like being ignored," the ex priest chided, "you do that and things will get hinky."

"You heard that?" Sam looked back at the man and he nodded, "I hear everything lately." He rubbed the temples of his forehead and pinched the bridge to his nose.

"Donovan have any aspirin on hand?" he queried and Sam prodded Dean with his forefinger.

"Top shelf, small bathroom near my room," Sam waited until Dean left and approached the man. He squatted down on his haunches and stared the man in the face. Despite being held within the protective charms, without access to much of anything, he appeared comfortable, except for the pained expression in his eyes.

"Migraines," he told Sam, almost reading his thoughts, "incredible mind splitting migraines."

"How long have you been getting them," Sam asked and the man smiled a bit sadly,

"Since you two opened the gates to Hell."

"And those lights," Sam pointed back to the large mahogany desk, where small flittering lights were swarming over the resources Donovan had acquired over the years, "they come with some package deal?"

"That's _them_ playing nice," the man sighed, "but I wouldn't ignore them for much longer," the man pinched at his nose again and threw back his head against the wall. He continued to bang his head until droplets of blood ran from his nose.

"Where's that brother of yours with the aspirin," he agonized.

"Right here, Twitchy," Dean smirked and with a flick of his wrist, tossed the bottle to his brother, who uncapped it, and handed it to the man. He snatched it, poured out more than the recommended dosage, and swallowed them sans water.

"Not tryin' to take the easy way out, are you, Padre?" Dean quipped, but the man began to convulse, holding his hands to his ears, and screaming in Latin. Sam jumped up and backward looking towards his brother for help but Dean just stood with his mouth agape.

A strong humming, almost electrical, began to shake the light fixtures on the ceilings. It grew stronger, louder, and brought both brothers to their knees. They scrambled for cover.

"Son of a bitch!" Dean growled as he looked up from shielded eyes as the iron girders on Donovan's stained glass window began to shake.

"Dean!" Sam rushed to his side and pushed him towards the desk, "Behind here!"

The stained glass window in the library shattered and blanketed the three men, who cowered with their hands over their hands, protectively. Carmichael began to laugh which caused both brothers to look at him alarmingly and Dean motioned to Sam, circling his index finger around his temple,

"Told you he was nuts," he shouted over the incessant ringing from their protective barrier that was the mahogany desk.

Looking around the spacious room, Dean found Sam staring at him, almost waiting for him to lock eyes on his brother. He was mouthing something, but Dean was struggling to hear him, with all the ringing in his ears. Sam appeared to be yelling and as Dean narrowed his eyes, he read Sam's lips,

"Angels."

Dean scrunched his nose and shook his head, pulling bits of green and blue colored glass from his shoulders, and stopped mid pluck as the deafening sounds dissipated.

"What the hell was that?" Dean flicked a piece of shattered glass and watched it hit the desk and fall to the floor amidst the rest of the debris.

"Filiolus liberi," Carmichael wiped the blood from his nostrils with the rolled up sleeve of his shirt and again, Dean looked to his brother for a translation.

"God's children," he did so but looked to the ex priest for confirmation. Carmichael nodded.

"What the hell do angels have to do with me?" Dean stood up and wiped his hands down his shirt and jeans, taking lengthy strides towards the man who sat semi comatose and imprisoned in a trap, similar to the King of Solomon.

"Much," Carmichael was short, perhaps too short with Dean, who took a pocketknife out from his back pocket, pulled the blade out between his two fingers, and scraped away at the paint on the wooden floors. Carmichael hesitated and before he could step out of the trap, Dean had him pinned against the wall.

"Dean!" Sam shouted, "Don't!"

"Don't _what_, Sam," Dean launched an icy glare towards his brother, "I don't have time for this!"

He dropped the man, who fell to his knees, but Dean was quick, he pulled him back up by the neck of his shirt and connected his fist to the man's jaw. Carmichael's head reeled back and spittle sprayed from his mouth. Sam rushed to the man's aid and pulled him away from his brother, before he could get another Winchester punch into the man.

"What are you doing?" Sam shielded the man with his elongated torso, holding one arm against the man, and offering a questioning hand towards his brother.

"Gettin' answers," Dean retorted and stepped towards his brother, glaring behind him.

"Are you goin' to move, or am I going to have to kick your ass too?" Dean stood threateningly, squaring off with his brother.

Sam clenched his teeth and squinted his eyes, squaring off with his older brother.

"Listen, Dean," he pleaded, "we're going to get answers," he looked back at Carmichael who nodded quickly, "just not like this, okay?"

"Just what the hell happened?" Van's voice broke through the icy interior of the Library and her leather-hiking boots crunched the broken glass beneath their soles.

She scanned the room, taking in the broken stained glass window, the glass, the torn pages from her antiquated books, the broken seal on the trap, Sam's towering body holding a withered Carmichael from an irate Dean, whose fists were clenched at his sides.

"Talk to Mother Theresa over there," Dean grumbled and brushed past her pointing a shaking finger towards his brother, "maybe you'll get some answers."

"Dean," she reached for his arm, caught the sleeve of his shirt, and stopped him, but not before he yanked his arm from her grasp.

"I," Dean looked from her to his brother, and swallowed, the pain in his eyes almost unbearable, she lowered her gaze to his lips as he spoke, "can't do this."

"Can't," Van questioned him, "or won't?"

"Save it," Dean bit back, "because whatever he's about to sell you," he shot an annoyed look towards Carmichael, "I ain't in the mood to buy."

"But Dean," Sam's voice was softer, weaker, as if he was giving in, "what if this is just what we've been searching for?"

"Demons, Sam, I get," Dean ran a hand through his hair, and rolled his eyes as a shard of glass pinched his skin, "but angels, come on!"

"Angels?" Van queried and Sam nodded,

"There's more to this than we thought, Van," Sam brought Carmichael to his side, keeping him within arm's length for his safety, "and he just might be our way in."


	16. Chapter 16

*This chapter, albeit, short, introduces a path I'm leaning towards, that gets a head start where season 5 takes us. With that said, I'm also taking on a new character, that is written by/created by the all talented Littletonpace. Andrea Morgan, aka Andie. She suggested we write each others' gals into our fics and seeing how i'm taking on a lot with Dean's impending death, I wanted Donovan to have someone she could turn to...who better to turn to, than the ass kicking, demon fighting Australian, smart ass, Andrea Morgan?

Chapter 16

Van, was more of a believer in the things that went bump in the night than she was in God, but she had to admit, what if Sam was right? What if, all their fighting the good fight, taking out evil, one ghouly son of a bitch at a time, wasn't enough? What if, there was something more? For every bit of evil there had to be some form of good, or was that just her parochial headmaster's motto?

She couldn't place it, nor could she displace it either.

What mattered, however, was Dean and she bee-lined after him. He had made his exit known; the doors to the library were askew, the end table that lined her corridor, where he had tossed his keys, days before, was a bit tussled. The keys were gone and as she started to run towards the front of her house, she could hear the Impala's tires peel out from her driveway. Gritting her teeth, she cursed under her breath, snatched her own keys from the hook above the end table, noting that it was very "Dean" to ignore the hook and shouted down the hall.

"Keep your phone on," she looked back behind her and saw Sam pop his head out from the library. He sighed, gave her a look, that read he was sorry, and she gave him a weak smile, that forgave him.

"We're all sorry one way or another, Sammy," and with that she slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat, turned the key, kicking its engine in gear, and followed the tire treads of Dean's precious Metallicar.

Delving into Dean's mindset wasn't something an amateur would consider taking on, however, when it came to Dean, if it wasn't a family matter, it would most likely fall into a food or beverage category with sexual promiscuity at a close third, depending on the day. Sensing how he had exited the manor, pulling _away_ from her, rather than pulling her on top of him, she pressed her foot on the gas pedal and sped towards the local bar.

Pulling into one of her favorite taverns, simply called, _The Dive_, Donovan parked, slammed her door shut, not bothering to lock it. It was nearing three o'clock on a Wednesday, and albeit this was the happening place to be come five o'clock, she knew Seamus would be more than accommodating. With that said, she waved to the quaint, semi hidden security cameras he had on either end of the parking structure, and headed towards the front door. Knowing Dean, he'd be perched near the back of the bar, elbows propped up on the sleek, yet aged, wooden bar, with a dark ale or whiskey, kissing his lips.

The chimes announced her arrival, and besides Seamus, who was as Irish as she was, besides his name, there wasn't much of a crowd. He rounded the bar, the glint in his hazel eyes and the warmth in his smile, welcomed her, until she exhaled and pointed to a rather dejected Dean at the end of the bar.

"No time for small talk, Seamus," Van placed her hand on his forearm and squeezed, "just put whatever he's having on my bill, and make it another, for me."

"Sure thing, Donovan," Seamus nodded and walked back towards the bar, "two whiskey's coming up."

Donovan groaned, "Hitting the sauce a bit early, don't you think?" She slid on a stool next to Dean, who hadn't even glanced in her direction.

"It's happy hour somewhere, I'm sure," he tilted his neck back and took another shot, rubbing his lips together, he slammed the shooter down on its rim.

"Seamus," Donovan waved the barkeeper over, "leave the bottle, would you?"

"Ain't goin' to make me regret this are you?" the man slyly smiled and Dean caught it and didn't like it.

"You heard her," Dean pushed his tumbler towards Seamus, "leave the bottle and refresh the nuts, would ya?"

"Dean!" Van looked back at Seamus and apologized. Seamus left the bottle and headed towards the other end, to refill a few orders, and wipe down the bar. Van turned on the bar stool and poked Dean in the ribs.

"Just where the hell do you get off?"

Dean took the bottle, poured himself another round, and topped hers off as well. He clinked his glass to hers, mocking a toast, and sneered,

"Cheers." Again, he downed another mouthful and Donovan shook her head, grabbed her tumbler, and followed suit.

"Smooth," she raked her tongue across the top of her mouth and stifled a cough.

"Come home with me," Van filled his glass up again and Dean looked at her, with a sly eye, and purred,

"You're hitting on me?"

"Is it working?" Van countered and smiled a seducing smile.

"Hell yes, woman, but you and I both know I'm not stepping another foot into that house," Dean swallowed another glassful and slammed the tumbler down.

"Unless," Donovan pulled her stool closer to Dean's and placed her hand on his thigh. She could feel him start to move and she shook her head,

"Dean, control yourself." He playfully frowned and somehow managed to do so. Van looked impressed and was about to ask how he could muster such self reserve when he tipped the bottle towards her, asking,

"_Unless_," Dean waved the bottle under her nose and as she scrunched at the odor of the liquor, he rolled his tongue over his bottom lip.

"If Carmichael's gone, you'll come back," Van ran her fingers up and down the inside of his thigh, "and talk to me."

"Just talk to me, Dean," she pleaded, "please."

"_Just _talk, Van," Dean smirked, "or you know, _talk talk,_" he winked.

Whatever gets him to open up, Van considered than renegotiated with herself, wondering if pimping one's self out for the good of the cause was really as immoral as it sounded.

"Listen, Lancaster," Dean's eyes were beginning to glaze over and his speech was beginning to slow up a bit, "either take advantage of this," he waved two hands up and down his body, "while it lasts, or don't." He took a final swig and stood up from the bar stool, flipped the collar to his hunting jacket and cocked his head to the side.

"You're call."

"You'll talk." Van raised an eyebrow and Dean exhaled, his whiskey sour breath was hot on her cheeks and it arose something deep inside of her.

"I have been, Van," Dean's expression softened and he was vulnerable for a moment, "and no one's hearin' me." The breath left his body and he stood defeated.

"I _hear_ you, Dean," Van felt tears welling in her eyes and she bit the inside of her cheek, "_I," _she patted her chest, "hear _you." _

Van took two lengthy steps towards Dean and he wrapped her in his arms, her face warm on his chest, and her hands tightly woven around his waist. She lifted her face from the warmth of his chest and Dean lowered his lips to kiss her forehead. They lingered there briefly and meandered their way down her cheek, to her neck, and back to her mouth. She kissed him back, inhaling his fear, his vulnerability, and smothered him with what he needed most; someone to take his mind off the inevitable and just let him be.

They drove from _The Dive _and checked into a local motel. Donovan's cell had been officially silenced; Sam and Bobby had filled her voice-mail inbox to its fullest capacity questioned their whereabouts. They couldn't get into the room fast enough. Both intoxicated and in need, they stumbled into the room, Dean slammed Van's body into the door, his hands careening up and down her body, finally latching the lock into place. Van's hands too had been traveling the very niches of Dean Winchester's body and when they grabbed onto his shoulders, Dean's hand cupped one breast as the other scooped her up and spun her around. She crossed her legs around his waist and let her mouth wander his, their tongues fighting for ownership, their lovemaking leaving an impression on the very walls of the motel. They broke a lamp, they overturned a dresser, and not once did they talk about Dean's impending death, the presence of angels and demons, or the fact that they were both scared.

No, they made love, as if it was the first time. They made love as if it was the last time. They memorized each other's dips and curves, dimples, and freckles, they left their mark on the other, something no demon, nor angel could ever do.

As they slept soundly, coiled around one another, Van's cell phone again began to vibrate with an incoming message, only this time it was a text, from another hunter, one of the few female friends she had leading this lifestyle. One who would only contact her if things weren't on the 'up and up'. The LCD screen on her cell illuminated and as it vibrated, Dean opened one eye and reached for it. Pulling it close to his face, he blinked twice, and pulled the phone back from his eyes, focusing on the message.

Tippy Toes

42.5155 -70.9072

He flipped her cell closed, muttered a bewildered "tippy toes," and turned over on his side, watching her sleep. He couldn't get past the strange feeling that she was in way over her head and that had to do with the coordinates at the end of the message.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17

Donovan awoke with a whiskey induced head banger and as she adjusted her eyes to the shimmer of sun that was eking its way through the motel curtains, she settled her eyes on a sleeping Dean. Rubbing at her temples, she reprimanded herself for not eating much and bingeing on whiskey with Dean. However, the outcome was quite pleasant, and as she relived the night before, she reveled in the fact that she had never felt as close to him as she did that night. She watched his tawny skin glisten with perspiration as his back rose and fell with each sleeping breath he took. His arms were hooked under his pillow, his one leg inched its way out of the sheets, and his foot dangled off the side of the bed. His head had succumbed to the massive pillows and Van found herself smiling at how peaceful he appeared.

She gently stroked his arm, traipsing her fingers up and down his toned forearm and across his back. A slow purr emitted from his throat and he mumbled,

"A little lower."

Van shook her head, no, and realizing he had no way of knowing her answer, she spoke softly,

"After I shower."

She unwrapped herself from his grasp and slid off the bed, stealing the sheet with one fluid motion.

"Not fair," he grumbled and grasped at the air, coming up empty handed. Van tossed a pillow at him and it landed directly on his bare glutes. He turned himself over, placing the pillow between his legs, and stretched back, cracking his fingers, and his neck. He looked up at Van who was busy wrapping the sheet around her and raised an eyebrow,

"You want some company?"

Van tilted her head to the side, considered his offer, and countered, "What I want is a pot of coffee and a bottle of aspirin."

"Doctors recommend two doses of Dean and a tumbler of whiskey" he winked, "to cure a hangover."

"If I remember right, I _had_ two doses," she coyly smiled, "and I'm still frakked."

"Goes to show the medical profession is just a bunch of quacks in white jackets," Dean failed to get Van to go another round and while he scanned the room, he noticed the mess they had made. Their clothes were haphazardly tossed across the room, her bra was hanging off a lamp's shade, which coincidentally was dangling on its side. His jeans were balled into a heap by the edge of the bed and he wasn't sure, but it looked as if one of his socks had landed lodged atop the television's ancient antenna. He reached for the remote and laid back down.

"We do all that?" he pointed the remote at the various piles of clothing and Van nodded.

"Looks like it."

Dean turned on the television and tapped the remote to the mattress.

"Come back to bed," he motioned with his head, "and maybe we'll lose the sheets too."

"Already got one," Van secured it around her breasts and turned on her heels to head towards the shower. Dean called out to her,

"Before you go," Dean stretched towards the end table and grabbed Van's cell phone, palmed it, and waited for her to turn around. Van stopped to grab a towel and turned,

"Yeah?"

Dean lobbed her the phone, hoping she'd lose the sheet if she let go, but to his chagrin, she caught it with one hand while the other kept the sheet in place.

"That's been goin' off all night."

She checked the phone, noticed a ton of missed calls from Bobby and Sam, two from students, and one unavailable number. What caught her attention was a text. The same text that left Dean with an uneasy feeling that never seemed to settle in his gut. Unsure of the coordinates, she checked her voicemail hoping her elusive, smart ass, rebel friend had left her something more to go on sans the text message itself. Dean watched as she held her cell to her ear, holding it against her shoulder as she fidgeted in the motel's sheet.

"Huh," she chuckled, "got one from Sam and from Bobby, both asking if I had found you," she rolled her eyes, "and I'll let you guess which message had a bit of a bite to it."

Dean called out Bobby's name and Van told him he was right.

"Two more from them," she deleted them with a press of a button, "this time Sam's gettin' a bit sharp."

"Sam? Sharp?" Dean shook his head, "Not likely."

"Oh shut it," Van chastised him, "you're lucky those two try as hard as they do."

"You're not an easy person to care for, you know." She challenged him with unrelenting eyes and he backed down.

Van continued to listen to her messages, skipping through two more, from students in her class, begging for an continuance on their term papers, "Not happening," she mumbled and erased their whining, annoying, messages. She continues to pace the room, trying to go through the mess of clothes, searching for her bra and panties, coming up empty handed and a bit disgusted as she heard moaning coming from the television set.

"You're not serious," she pointed to the graphic, albeit cheesy porno Dean had channel surfed through.

"What," he shrugged with a cocky grin, "it's free." He cocked his head to the side and knitted his brows together and pointed to the screen, "And _that's _illegal in most states."

"You're such a pig," she kicked the bed and he grabbed her foot, pulling her onto his lap, pressing his forehead to hers,

"Didn't seem to be a problem last night," he began to massage her back, releasing the tense knots from her shoulders. She purred, pointed to her neck, where Dean proceeded to tend to with his lips.

Van's back stiffened and she swatted at him, struggling to get up. Concerned, Dean asked her what was wrong. She pointed to the phone and for the first time, she was speechless. Dean stood up, the shadows danced across his nude body, shielding his most precious possessions, reaching for her shoulders, holding her steady. Her eyes were dilated in fear and her fingers started to tremble.

"Donovan, what's wrong?" he tried to coax her into talking but she just stood there, motionless, her face, expressionless.

He guided her to one of the wicker chairs in the motel room, and sat her down. He knelt in front of her and pulled the phone from her tight grasp. He closed the phone over and set it on the small table, his eyes lingered on it and that's when he asked,

"This doesn't have to do with," he couldn't believe he was about to repeat the words, but managed with a wry grin, "tippy toes, does it?"

"How'd you…," she blinked her eyes in wonder and he looked back to the cell phone.

"Told you it was goin' off all night."

"She's an old friend, Andrea," she stumbled through the words, "Andie," she leaned back into the chair and drew her knees up under her chin. She played with the frayed edges of the sheet as she told Dean about her friend.

"Is she into something kinky?" Dean asked her, the hopeful glint in his eyes was extinguished when she pushed both hands into his chest and jumped back onto the bed and she sighed,

"When isn't she," Van laughed and Dean looked at her perplexed, "I mean, sure, Andie's got a wild side, but that's not what I meant."

"So, she's in need, then," Dean stated and then raised a hand in question, pointing to her paled face, "why do you look like someone shit in your cereal?"

"She's, uh, wrapped up in something," the images swarmed around Van's head, making it difficult to concentrate of the bulk of Andie's message. The unsettling words refused to rest in the subcortex of her brain.

"Somethin' supernatural?" Dean inquired and Van lifted her eyes to meet Dean's baby blues and something in her hardened. Her eyes darken. She drew her thin lips together.

"Yeah, something like that."

"Damn it Donovan, playin' fifty question was never my thing," he wasn't about to let her get away with withholding information, "tell me what she said to shut you down like this." Dean's forehead riddled with worry lines and his voice grated against her ears like nails on a chalkboard.

"She encountered a bitch of a demon who has a message for me." Her bluntness deterred Dean and she waited for him to make a snarky comment, but when he didn't, she exhaled all the pent up confusion and anticipation and motioned for him to say something.

"What message?" he asked in earnestness.

"You want the PG version or the explicit?" Van hid her emotions behind sarcasm.

"While I'm always up for promoting the vulgar and explicit," Dean gave her one of his cunning smiles, "just sugarcoat this one."

"Huh, well," Van appeared disappointed, she really wanted to let her freak flag fly and let a few choice words escape her lips, but instead she kept it rated for most children and teens,

"If I keep helping the Winchesters, she won't stop at you, Dean."

Dean tightened his fingers on her knees and she flinched as his nails dug into her skin. The lightness of the room, the way the sun filtered through the curtains, the way she had felt in his arms the night before, everything seemed to turn to cold, dark, ash. Dean swallowed and her name rolled off his tongue, heavy, and bitter.

"Lilith."


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18

They arrived back at her house, walked towards the library and stopped short. Sam was head first, fast asleep, in an opened book, drool staining the pages and pooling into a puddle beneath his cheek. A well-used pencil was comfortably tucked behind his ear, bite marks present on the faded yellow paint. Bobby was reclining on the chestnut leather chair, his baseball cap pulled tightly over his face. His cell phone was rising and falling with every breath he took, the jiggling of his stomach, rocking it back and forth. Dean nudged her and pointed to the corner where they had trapped Carmichael. The man was gone.

"Can't say that surprises me," Dean clucked his tongue, "and can't say I give a damn."

"The one person who may have given you a snowball's chance is gone, Dean," Van's words were biting, "we needed him."

"More _now_ than ever," she found strength in her words and was amazed that her voice wasn't shaking as much as her insides seemed to be doing.

"What we _need_ is some way to ice that bitch Lilith," Dean's voice rose an octave, startling Sam awake.

Sam sat upright, pulled a knife from a sheath on his belt, and held it ready to defend himself against the intruders. Dean held up two hands, with a shit grin as broad as Bobby's waist, and laughed,

"Easy Sammy," his eyebrows twitched, "don't go slicin' and dicin' just yet."

Frustrated, Sam shook his head and raised his voice, now waking Bobby from his stone like slumber,

"Don't you two check your damn phones?" he cast his puppy dog eyes to Van for support but Dean ruined his chance at a genuine answer.

Pulling his broken cell phone from his back pocket, Dean held it up, two halves to one phone,

"Yeah, about that," he trailed off and Sam averted his eyes from the nuisance of a brother back to Donovan.

"What about yours," Sam pointed to her, "did it suffer the same fate as his?"

"Leave 'em be, Sam," Bobby's gruff voice barreled from the recliner. They all turned to look at him and stared curiously at the man who appeared to still be sleeping under his cap.

"You know they were too wrapped up in their congical visit over at that there motel," Bobby sat himself upright and gripped the brim of his cap between his forefinger and thumb, posturing towards them.

They both appeared surprised causing Bobby to grunt, "that priest called in your location the minute his ass was out of here."

"Said you two looked cozy," Bobby shrugged and looked to Sam, waving a strict finger,

"Sam's just gotten his panties in a bind because you promised to bring his ass back."

"Well, I did," she tapped Dean on the shoulder, "he's here, isn't he?"

"Yeah, but," Sam began, however Dean shuffled over to one of the wooden chairs, turned it so the back was to the front, and sat down, his arms resting over the braided wooden back.

"No, buts, Sam," his voice was solemn; "we got something you need to hear, see if you can work that pricey brain of yours around it."

"I got a message and coordinates," Van waited while both Sam and Bobby asked her to repeat herself, "_coordinates_, you know, latitude and longitude, pinpointing an exact location, I know you're familiar with them," she exasperated, they nodded,

"Yeah, we are…just didn't realize you were too," Sam looked over at his brother, almost reading his thoughts. Their father sent them coded messages, often encrypted in coordinates with a name or a date.

"Well, Andie, she's the source and before you ask, yes, she's credible," she made sure they understood, "say's Lilith may still be in Salem."

"Salem?" Sam asked, "You're talking about witches?"

Dean mumbled, "Nasty hags, always spewing their bodily fluids."

"The one and only," Van nodded, "signs also point to recent supernatural activity, centering around The Witch House."

"Yeah, Van and I double checked the coordinates with a map," Dean concurred, "dead center of Salem."

"And I used the internet access terminal at one of the coffee shops before heading back here to do a bit of research," Van interjected.

"Told her that's your area of expertise," Dean looked over at his brother, "but she needed coffee and they had these donuts."

"No shit," Bobby grunted and dismissed Dean's lusting over sugary sweets and waved Van over, "let's hear it." He pointed to her cell. Donovan hit the speed dial on her cell phone, clicked another button to put it on speaker and laid it down on the cluttered desk. An Australian voice, female, began to talk, her words were rushed and bits were cut off, most likely due to the electromagnetic impulses coming from the demon populated area she was calling from.

_Van, it's Morgan…_static…_bad shit cometh…call me._

The line goes dead and Sam and Bobby look up at Van. She's standing with her arms folded tightly across her chest and she indicates with a nod of her head that there's more. Sure enough, a second message comes on, indicating that she had called two minutes after the last message.

_Don't…__don'__t call me. It's not safe._

For a second time the line cuts off. The automated voice on the other end states the date and time and it isn't for another five minutes until Andie calls back.

_Texting you my location. Ran into trouble. She…uh, said you'd know her by name…Lilith? _Static_…Nasty biatch. Demon tramp. _Heavy breathing_. Tossed her lackies into a dumpster…you should have seen it! My range is wicked._

The automated message disconnects for a third time, but Andie calls back immediately.

_Son of a bitch…four minute limit. Such bullshit. _Heavy breathing. You can hear her kick start her motorcycle. _Whatever Winchester crap you stepped in, forget about it. _Revs engine. _No matter how shaggable Dean is…dyin' isn't in your cards, Van. Not like this. Priorities. Remember our motto? _

Donovan overlaps Andie's voice and they speak in tandem, "Use 'em and lose 'em."

Dean and Sam eye her, intrigued, but they could hear struggling in the background of the message and they turned their attention back to her friend's message.

_Shit. _Struggle ensues_. _Andie screams from the pavement, towards the fallen phone,

_Let him go!_

Engine still purring. Hear fists being thrown, connecting flesh to flesh. Grunting. Buttons being pushed on cell phone_._

Breathy voice, _Damn it…Van?_

Voicemail cuts off again. Van ends voicemail messages. The brothers and Bobby are staring at her, apparently enthralled by Andie's reference to a time when both women at one point or another, went through men like dinner mints.

"Use 'em and lose 'em?" Dean smirked and winked at her, "Well, you never cease to amaze me Lancaster."

"Shut it," she points a finger at his face and then points to Sam who is ogling her with his too cute for words puppy dog eyes, "what?"

"So, was this like," he coughs, "before or after Dean and you…," he raises an eyebrow inquisitively.

She's silent and that speaks louder than any words ever could.

"After," Sam swallows, "yeah, got it."

"Can we get back to her warning," Van sighs, her raised hands are trembling, something neither the boys nor Bobby refuse to ignore, "you know, that this bitch we haven't even met yet, something I haven't even done enough research on, is apparently chock full of tidbits on…well…," she exhales, "my tidbits?"

Bobby kneads his bottom lip with his chewing tabbaco stained teeth and grunts. Donovan looks to him and exasperates,

"That's all you have to say," she rolls her eyes in frustration, "humph?"

"Van," Sam's buttery smooth voice, draws her attention, "maybe it's just a ruse, you know, a trap, she's setting up?"

"That's even better, Sam," she laughs hauntingly, "now I'm going to be responsible for Dean's," she can't say the word death, instead she looks to him, and he tilts his head to the side, once, and straightens his back, cracking his knuckles, one after another.

"Well this shit just keeps getting better and better," Dean deadpans.


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19

After a much needed respite, one which Van didn't get around to in the motel, Donovan exited the steamy confines of her shower, wrapped a large, terrycloth towel around her lean and muscular torso, and wiped the palm of her hand down in a lopsided rainbow, clearing the condensation from the mirror. She stood and stared at herself.

Thinking back to a time when things weren't as complicated, post Dean, where she traveled the country looking for, finding, and extinguishing demons, all by her lonesome, she reminisced with her reflection. Most nights that she fought, she struggled with the decision to go at it alone, but Dean's face would jog her memory, the way he looked the night he left her, to go find his father, to go rekindle his relationship with his brother. More so, the night, he left her, cold, alone, and bitter. He changed her, more ways than one, he turned her inside out on most days, and pieced her back together most nights. However, that night, he left her, crept out of her bed, down the creaking steps of her house, and out the front door. He didn't leave a note, she recalled and she watched as her eyebrows raised twice,

"Why would he, Van," her reflection taunted her, "stayin' was never one of his redeeming qualities."

"It was different," she scolded herself, "he was different." Her chocolate brown eyes laughed at her naivety,

"No, Van, you wanted him to be different," she knew her reflection was right, "and there lies the problem."

A knock on her bathroom door, startled her, and as she gazed back at the mirror, she had realized it had fogged over.

"Van," Dean's voice, rough, and smooth, even his voice was a contradiction, she mused, sounded muffled through the thick wooden door.

"You okay?" now his voice appeared childlike, desperate, and Van opened the door and stood before him, her one hand on her hip, the other gripped to the doorframe.

"No," she stared at him, trying to reconnect with him, but he just looked back at her, as distant and timid as she felt.

"But then again, being okay, with this looming over our heads, would be insane, right?" she brushed past him, her damp shoulder collided with his, and he reached for her, grasped her elbow, causing her to stop, midstep.

"Don't," she shook her head at him, narrowing her eyes, "don't try to tell me this is going to be okay, that we'll figure a way out," she swallowed, willing herself not to let the saline flow from her eyes, "you of all people, don't lie to me."

A shadow crossed over Dean's eyes for a second, but he only sighed and let out a weak chuckle,

"Was just goin' to tell you, Sam and I were goin' to head to Salem, tonight, if you wanted to tag along."

"Oh," she brought a hand to her forehead, and rested her fingertips, "and the award for the Biggest Bitch goes to," she trailed off and Dean pulled her into him, wrapped his arms around her, and as quickly as he did, he pushed himself back.

"I wouldn't say, _biggest_," he kissed her on the forehead, "but then again," he shrugged and headed for her door.

"Dean," she called out his name and he turned to face her,

"Yeah?" he asked, watching her pull her chestnut curls into a bun, a few tendrils springing to life around her face.

"Did you ever think, back then, when you left," she watched Dean's eyes go from anticipation to frustration, "that we'd end up right where we left off?"

"No," he answered her, trying his damndest to be hard, stoic, but instead he came off disarming, "I never thought I'd end up here, Van, not once, did it cross my mind, that I'd need your help."

"Well," Van struggled with her hands, wishing she had pockets to thrust them in, instead she stuffed them under her armpits, "that was honest."

"You're not supposed to save me," he took a few strides towards her and stared down at her, "do you understand?" his brows knitted into a tight, feral V, and his chest rose and fell with fervor.

"You're not gettin' it," he mirrored her, his hands now in his own pockets, wishing they were clamped around a flask of something smooth and bitter.

"Obviously," she was snide.

"I'm not good at this," he waved a hand around pointing to her room, to her, and back to him, "I never was."

"You see me coming here as a last resort," his voice dropped an octave, "but the truth is, I came here to die," his words stung her and she sat down on the edge of her bed, brought her head down, and laid it between her legs, afraid she'd hyperventilate.

"I came here to die, fighting, Van," he knelt down in front of her, picked her head up with his hands, and circled his thumbs around her temples, massaging her, willing her to look him in the eyes.

"I came here for you."

"For your help," he leant his forehead down and touched it to hers, the tips of their noses connected, and he whispered,

"I need you." He exhaled, admitting to that wasn't easy, struggling with that, caused a cyclone of emotions to thrash inside of him, his eyes, became moist and a sole tear splashed onto Van's cheek. He repeated those three words, each time, his voice getting weaker, until finally, he was crying in her lap. Van slinked off the bed, cradling Dean in her arms, rocking him, caressing his face, kissing his head.

"Shh," she consoled him, "just let it go, Dean," she kissed him again, "you're safe here."

"I'm not going to let you die," she vowed, "do you hear me," she continued to rock him, and he sat up.

Dean raised his hand to caress the side of her face, wiping away tears that she hadn't known were falling, and brought his lips to hers. They met with such fervor, that their sobs, were extinguished with passion. She found herself kissing him back, promising him, with each mouthful, that she'd go to the ends of the earth if it meant saving him.

"I believe you," he told her, as he kissed her and allowed her to kiss away his tears, which had fallen like rivers down his cheeks. Deep in his core, stored away in the very fibers of his body, his conscience, spoke, ablaze and scrupulous, his true self countered his admission,

"But it's just too late."

After their intimate moment, Dean excused himself, told Van he had to go double check Sam's packing abilities, and instead, walked downstairs, raided her fridge, and twisted the cap off of a beer. Hearing footstep behind him, he spun around, and came face to face with Bobby.

"You alright, Boy?" he waited for Dean's answer, which was muted by a swallow of the ale, and indicative of a nod of the head, Bobby grunted and made his way around to the fridge, taking a bottle for himself. He spoke to Dean, with his back turned, unsure of how to face him.

"Things are going to get worse, before they get better," he took a swig of the chilled ale, "I've been researching signs."

"Signs," Dean questioned, "of what?"

"Symptoms, really, something the books refer to as the warning signs of a marked soul."

"Like what, Bobby, a rash on my ass?"

"You were always a crude son'a'bitch," Bobby snarled, "no, not a rash on your ass, you Idjit."

"You're destined for Hell, Dean," Bobby grumbles, "this angel thing is the least of your worries, I'm talkin' nightmares, hallucinations, uncontrollable bouts of rage," he looks to Dean, who has now sat atop the counter in Van's kitchen. His legs are dangling, his boots kicking back softly on the cabinets.

"You hearin' me, boy?" Bobby snarls and Dean looks up at him with a strange look on his face,

"What about these nightmares," he looks concerned and Bobby meanders his way over to Dean and places a hand on his shoulder,

"You sayin' you had one," he asks and Dean snorts,

"I hunt and kill demons, Bobby, I can't say I remember having a good dream, let alone, a night where I don't wake up in a mess of sweats."

"But the other night, I dunno, Bobby, something in me, felt different, like I wasn't really dreaming," he looks up to Bobby and takes another swig of his beer. He places the bottle down on the counter and brushes his hands on his legs, smoothing out the denim.

"How'd you feel," Bobby inquired and Dean's face paled, showing how vulnerable he was becoming.

"That'd bad," Bobby concurred and clapped Dean on the shoulder before walking back to the refridgerator to get Dean a refill.

"It ain't good, Bobby, that I know for damn sure." Dean accepted the second beer and twisted the cap off with ease.

"So what's next," Dean proffered the bottle towards Bobby, "hallucinations?"

"Seems so," Bobby grunted and walked out of the kitchen, making Dean follow. They found themselves back in the library where Bobby snatched up a book and flipped to a page he had dog-eared. He tapped his finger at a ghoulish drawing, faces twisted in agony, and swallowed a burp.

"Things aren't going to appear the same way to you as they would me or say Sam," he showed Dean a photo of a man whose face was contorted, multiple sets of eyes, blackened were blended into one another. Dean read the description beneath the photo and cringed,

"Well, least I'll know what I'm up against," Dean smiled halfheartedly, "especially if they all look like that poor bastard."

The front door opened and shut and Sam's heavy footsteps could be heard making their way towards the library. Above them, Donovan was busy moving around in her bedroom, most likely packing for the road trip to Salem. Sam entered the vast library and motioned to the window,

"Car's all packed," he looked around the room and noticed that both Bobby and Dean looked uncomfortable.

"What is it?" Sam asked and walked towards Bobby, who shut the book he was holding, causing bits of dust to dance.

"Nothin' to worry your pretty little head about, Sammy," Dean sauntered over to his brother and clapped him on the shoulder,

"How about we get somethin' to eat before ganking some witches?"

"Sure," Sam nodded, looking back towards Bobby with a questioning air about him.

"You'd tell me if it was something I needed to know, right, Dean," Sam eyeballed his brother and Dean spoke into the lip of the beer bottle,

"Sure I would, Sammy," he lied to his brother and when Sam let out a sigh of relief, Dean looked towards Bobby who shared a familiar look of regret as he did.

"You stayin' here, Bobby?" Sam asked and the older man nodded,

"Figured someone's gotta keep an eye on that Carmichael fella once ya'll leave."

Van took the stairs two at a time and threw her duffel to the floor of the foyer. She picked up her car keys and then tossed them back into a dish on an end table in the hallway knowing very well Dean would insist on driving. Which was fine, because his trunk was furnished with all the necessary tools they may need in Salem. She checked her reflection in the mirror, sucked in a bated breath, and called out to the boys,

"You two numb nuts ready, or what?"

Dean and Sam each walked to the doorway of the library and crammed into the doorway, making it difficult for either of them to exit. Refusing to take a step back to let either brother pass, they succumbed to their childlike antics. Dean elbowed Sam,

"Bitch!"

Sam stomped on Dean's foot causing him to stagger in pain, making it easier for Sam to exit. Sam shot an angry look in Dean's direction,

"Jerk!"

"Explain to me how you two make it through each day and manage to stay alive," she stood with her arms folded across her chest, "watchin' you two makes my brain hurt."

"We're equal parts brain and brawn," Dean winked, and Sam rolled his eyes,

"No, we're not." Sam cast an annoyed look in Dean's direction, which only spurred him to take it to the next level,

"You're right, Sammy, what was I thinkin'," Dean picked up Van's duffel and swung it over his shoulder, "I got more brawn in my pinky than you do in your," Van smacked Dean upside the head.

"Oomp," he reached up and massaged the tingling spot she had left him with, "what was that for?"

"Because, you were setting yourself up for disaster," she reached for the handles on her duffel and hefted it from Dean's grasp,

"Even I know Sam would have said he had more brains in his pinky than you do in your," she looked down at his crotch and winked, "and that's one thing I'm not getting involved in."

Dean had a twinkling in his eye and he slyly smiled, "Too late for not getting involved."

"Ugh, you are such a child!"

"I know, ain't it a bitch!" Dean laughed and signaled to Bobby that they'd be in touch. Sam shuffled his way towards the door and kissed Van atop her head, smiling he thanked her.

"No need," she winked, "I'm sure he'll come up with something snarky," she waved to Bobby to close the door behind them, and walked down the path towards the Impala.

"Besides, we have what, four hours to come up with our own," she and Sam high fived each other and while Van tossed her duffel into the backseat, Sam stepped back, to allow Van to climb in after her duffel, and he took the passenger's seat.

"You two ready?" Dean pulled a tape out of the tape deck and inserted it's replacement. The music blared from the stereo and Van leaned her back against the rear window, while she stretched her legs out as far as they could on the backseat. She took out her cell phone and sent Andie a text.

_On our way._

_3 hrs._

_Better have beer._

_DL_

"You wanna turn this up," Van asked, a big smile played across her face, "nothing like Zepplin to get you in the mood." Led Zepplin's _How Many More Times_ erupts in the speakers and Dean looks at Van in the rearview and begins to sing along.

"_Well they call me the hunter, that's my name_," Dean cranks it out, tapping his fingers to the beat on the steering wheel. Sam looks back at Van who is mouthing the lyrics, humming under her breath,

"_They call me the hunter, that's how I got my fame_," Sam can't help but start to sing along,

"_Ain't no need to hide, ain't no need to run_," the three of them are now singing at the top of their lungs, Van's tapping her foot to the drums,

"'_Cause I've got you in the sights of my…_," they trail the last word, hitting an octave only the pros could hit, and end the song with a finalizing,

"_Gun!_"

Van's phone vibrates, but she doesn't feel it, the speakers are causing enough vibration. The light on the backdrop of her phone blinks and she flips her phone open. Andie has texted her back with her location.

_Hawthorne._

_3__rd__ flr._

_Ask 4 Cosmo Kramer._

_AM_

Van laughs and closes her phone over. It had been years since she had seen Andie, yet the girl still could make her laugh.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20

While they didn't know what they were going to be getting themselves into, they did manage to convince Sam to do some researching on the world wide web, or as Dean liked to call it, Sam's longest relationship, withstanding. Sam skimmed over latest weather reports in Salem, pinpointing possible supernatural phenomena. Donovan had told them where to meet up with Andie once they got into Salem and Sam decided to do some research on the motel itself.

_The Hawthorne_, at one time was a wealthy establishment, notorious for high stake gambling, a speakeasy during the prohibition, a gathering hole for sea captains, and named after their first born son, of Salem, Nathanial Hawthorne himself, the author of _The Scarlet Letter._

"Did you know that he was a descendant of a judge during the Salem Witch Trials?" Sam's voice broke the lull of their trip; Dean had given Donovan the wheel an hour left of the drive and had fallen asleep in the backseat.

"I did," Van concurred, "I also know he thought by changing the spelling of his name, his family would be safe from the curse that riddled his family for ages," she recalled the years spent in college finishing her dream, while Sam left his behind to go on a supernatural spree of demon hunting with his brother and father.

"What exit again?" Sam asked Van as he scrolled through sorting out legend from lore on the various web pages he had open on his laptop.

"Why," Van glanced at him and raised an eyebrow in jest, "you have to use the little boy's room?"

"Har-har," Sam mockingly retorted, "thought Dean was asleep."

"It's strange, you know," Van was sardonic, "it's as if by being behind _this_ wheel, of _this_ car, the driver instantly turns into a dick," she sticks out her tongue at Sam and slaps his shoulder.

"Bitch."

She threw out Dean's petty comeback when his brother is being too girly for his own good but Sam only shook his head and told her,

"Not gonna hit you."

"Why, not, Sam," she egged him on, "is it because I'm such a 'lady'?" She punched his arm even harder, causing him to wince.

"Stop it," he picked up a take-out napkin and waved it in mock defeat, "I surrender, okay?"

"Not goin' to happen, Winchester," she decided to play the game as Dean would, and turned up the volume, blasting the latest tunes. She eyed the rearview and noticed Dean hadn't even budged.

"Motorhead?" Sam scoffed and reached for the dial, but Van slapped his hand away, like a pesty child,

"Driver picks the music," she eyes Sam and he slinked lower into the passenger seat, almost on cue,

"Yeah, yeah, shut my cake hole, I got it." Sam slapped his laptop closed and leaned his head back on the headrest. He inhaled and exhaled the worn leather of the Impala, and then turned his head to look at Van as she continued to drive. She has also lowered the volume, because in all honesty, she could never stand Motorhead. She just put up with Dean's selective music the way she dealt with most of her students, 'in one ear and out the other'.

"What's the story with this Andie chick?" Sam asked her and Van tapped her multitude of rings on the steering wheel.

"Met her around seven years ago," she has a broad smile on her face as she recalls the moment they met, "she nicked my pocket."

"No, shit," Sam let out a shocking puff of air, "what'd you do?"

"Me?" Van laughed and waved him off, "I slit her tires."

"Touché," Sam conceded and Van shook her head, in disagreement.

"Thing is, Jeremy cost me a few hundred bucks, so in hindsight, I probably should have just cornered her and demanded my money back."

"Wait, who's Jeremy?" Sam obviously confused, raised a hand in question, the student in him was never far behind.

"Her motorcycle," Van scoffs, "guys aren't the only ones who name their vehicles, Sam."

"So, how's a thief become your friend," Sam asks with sincerity.

"She needed help," Van tapped her index finger to Iron Maiden, "I helped. Not much to it."

"You're leaving out the good stuff, aren't you?" Sam sighed and Dean mumbled from the backseat,

"She has a thing for holding out the good stuff," Dean stretched his arms over his head in an arch and cracked his too stiff neck, and yawned quite dramatically.

"Not according to Andie," Sam reminded him of the voicemail Van had received, and Dean snorted, his mind quickly averted by the growling in his stomach,

"Andie, Schmandie," he blew him off, "who's hungry?" He looks from Van to Sam and back again with such an intensity, Van wonders how he can keep his eyes open so much, grinning like a banshee in heat.

"Dude, we already ate," Sam shook his head, always underestimating Dean's insatiable appetite.

"Over two hours, Sammy boy," Dean slapped his brother on the shoulder; again, Sam winces.

"I bet you could go for a mean Cobb salad," Dean joked and Van made a quick right off the highway, onto their exit.

"Do me a favor, Sam," Van pulled her cell phone out from the cup holder, and instructed Sam to text Andie, "word for word, Sam, don't edit."

"Got it," Sam starts texting a reply to Van's most recent text from Andie. "20 mins. outside of Hawthorne, order food, better have beer."

"Now spill it, Donovan," Dean insists from the backseat, "we want all the details on how you met Morgan, don't leave anything out."

"Wouldn't think of it," Van winked, "you sure you can handle it?"

"Oh, I'm sure," Dean rolled his tongue over his bottom lip and kept his eyes on Donovan's in the rearview. Her eyes glaze over with memories of that weekend and we find ourselves seven years in the past, a November evening, in a hole in the wall, bar, in Nebraska.

******* Flashback ******

Before she had left her small town in Massachusetts, Donovan had buried both her mother and father in the span of six years. Her father, Boone Lancaster, a hunter, never wanted the life that John Winchester had fallen into, but it appeared the two men had more than just hunting in common; they wore bull's eyes on their backs for any demon who knew their name, face, scent, or whereabouts. Their families, were collateral. Both men, were stubborn, loyal, and had hearts turned cold by revenge. Their children subsequently followed down the well traveled, supernatural roads, that their fathers had wanted them to steer clear of. Donovan's mother, Andrea, a hunter as well, had died in the crossfire of one of her husband's hunting trips. Unlike the Winchester's, Boone insisted his daughter stay in school. "Get an education first," he had persisted, "then, and only then, when you graduate, if you want to hunt, you can."

That is just what she had done. She studied the paranormal, fought demons in term papers; the only 'blood' she had ever seen was the red letters of A's scrawled on her work. She graduated top of her class, was offered a teaching job, at a local university, and as she considered the offer, she was faced with the death of her father. Sudden and supernaturally related, she tried to contact John Winchester, but only got his voicemail, instructing anyone who called, to contact his son, Dean, who could handle the job. She called another hunter, a friend of her father's, Bobby Singer, instead, who advised her to contact Dean. Aggravated that John wasn't returning her calls, and that the one person her father had told her she could rely on, instead forwarded her onward to the son of John, left her infuriated, but at the end of her rope. She found herself picking up the phone, punching in the numbers that Bobby had given her, and holding her breath as this too, went to voicemail.

His voice, though, was something she could find herself getting used to, and when they met, she found that Dean Winchester was someone she could definitely get used to, and she did. For eighteen months, they hunted together, they ate together, they fought together, and they succumbed to numerous motel beds together. However, they never found the demons that murdered her father. They had stumbled upon a clue, but when Dean's father went MIA, so did Dean; he left her, alone, so close to finding the demon, yet still alone. She never called him again. He never called her. That's where their encounter ended.

Her father had stumble upon a case, involving _Schattenwanderers_, shadow walkers, demons trapped between worlds, neither hellions nor angels, paralyzed in the light, fueled by fear, anxiety, and the naivety of children. They mostly attacked as dusk's nightly blanket layered the earth, feeding off children, luring them to look them in their fire red eyes, leading them to their darkened corner, trapping them into a world of _Schattens_, never to be seen again.

These "Shadow Walkers" killed her father. A grown man, who in all his hunting and researching, never realized that even if you grew up, even the most mature person, can harbor a child like fear of the dark and unknown.

While her father led a life full of conflicting emotions, sporadic, genuine, 'jobs', and life on the road, his unrequited love for his daughter and his wife, kept him balanced. It was this same devotion, same drive, same need for revenge that led Donovan to Nebraska, to a hunter's bar, _Harvelle's Roadhouse._

"If he could only see me now," Van parked her vintage '76 Camaro, emerald green, with the white racing stripes, her father had insisted they include in the detailing. The car was the one thing she had left of her father; they had rebuilt it together and it was her graduation gift only months back. She shook the damp chill off her bones, pulled down her skullcap tighter around her chocolate curls, hefted her duffel over her shoulder, and dodged rain puddles as she entered The Roadhouse.

The atmosphere was bleak, the bar was nearly empty, sans a few men, in leather vests, and hair tied back, that didn't seem to have been washed in days, playing pool, arguing over a scratched play. There was a girl, around Donovan's age, who was sitting at the far end of the bar, a motorcycle helmet taking the place to her left, sipping on a beer, and a woman behind the bar, tending to it, with a wet rag, and a worn expression. Another girl, with blonde hair, was near the back, mopping up what Van could only ascertain was a drunken mess of vomit and beer nuts.

She sidled up to the bar, put a few folded bills on the aged wood, and asked for a cold beer. The woman sighed, walked over, asked for her ID, and giving it the once over, halted at the name.

"Lancaster?" The woman asked her, "You any relation to Boone?"

"My father," Van answered the woman and she could that the woman was in shock.

"You ain't Boone's little girl, Donovan," she looked her up and down, making Van a bit uncomfortable.

"Listen," Van cut in, "I don't mean to be rude, but I've had one hell of a month, so if you don't mind," she looked at the woman, and almost pleaded with her hazel eyes, "I could really use a good drink."

"Yup," the woman chuckled, "Boone's daughter, alright," she lifted a bottle of whiskey off the top shelf, took a tumble from under the bar, and poured Van a shot. Van shook her head,

"A beer's just fine," she paused, "really."

"Girl, your father was one hell of a hunter," she poured herself a shot as well, "and this was his drink," she lifted the tumbler and held it out in front of her, "so drink with me, in honor of your father, and quit bitchin'."

Van couldn't help but laugh, "I'm sorry, but I didn't catch your name."

"That's because you didn't give me any time to throw it out there, now did you?" The woman tilted her head to the side and waited for Van to agree.

"Ellen," she offered her hand, "I own this well aged, but oh so fine, establishment," and pointed to the back of the bar, "that's my daughter, Jo."

Van turned her head to the right and nodded a hello, to the young girl mopping the floor. Jo raised a hand and waved, kicked the bucket forward, and steered it through the swinging doors that must have led to the kitchen. Although Van didn't think they served food from the looks of things.

"We don't get many people from Massachusetts out this way," Ellen handed her a small, faded, menu, as if she was reading Van's mind.

"I suggest the steak," Ellen winked, "we're kind of known for it 'round here."

Van eyed the menu and settled for steak fries in gravy and commented on the establishment,

"Doesn't look like you get many people at all."

"Hunters mostly," Ellen kept her voice low, "and a few stranglers," she eyed the girl at the far end of the bar, "like that one there."

Van could feel the dark eyes of the girl boring into her, yet every time she turned her head to catch her, she'd only catch a glimpse of her multiple earrings, and a small tattoo behind her ear. From what Van could determine, it was a star of some sort.

"I'll go fire up the grill," Ellen told her and Van shook her head, "No, please, fries will be just fine," but Ellen just put one hand on her hip and shook her head, like Van's mother used to do,

"I'm not havin' it be said that I sent Boone's daughter away from here with a stomach full of whiskey and some fries swimmin' in gravy," she winked, "no way, Honey."

"Alright, Ellen," Van conceded, "medium well, then."

"You got it, darlin'," with that, Ellen pushed through the swinging doors and left Van alone at the bar, with the mysterious girl at the far end of the bar. Van unzipped her duffel and delved into its contents, pushing t-shirts and jeans to one side, and reaching blindly for a worn leather journal, her father used to keep. Gripping the journal, she pried it open to the section on Shadow Walkers, and immersed herself in some reading while she could smell the steak cooking in the back. She was so enthralled with her father's notes, his all too familiar scrawl, that when the isolative girl brushed into her, excusing herself,

"Must be the booze,"

Van just waved her off and pulled at her leather jacket, catching the light from the lamp outside the bar, as the girl left The Roadhouse.

"Been there," Van muttered to herself and put her hand into her pocket, reaching for her chapstick, and came up empty handed. Slamming her fist to the bar, Van growled,

"Son of a bitch!"

She left her duffel and her father's journal on the bar, and ran out the door of the bar, stopping short to check her whereabouts. She scanned right, taking in the empty road, and turned her head left, towards the parking lot. She noticed a few cars and a motorcycle. Van smirked to herself, knowing very well, that the girl who just picked her pockets wasn't going to get anywhere that night, she sauntered over to the motorcycle, ran her hands down the cool steel handlebars, onto the slick leather seat, and whispered,

"Sorry, baby," pulled out her pocketknife and slit both tires, the air escaping them reminded Van of hissing snakes.

She could feel the girl's eyes on her back as she walked casually back to the bar, and held up one finger, signaling to her, that she may have nicked a few bucks, but Van had clearly made off with much more; a win.

After enjoying the steak and another shot of whiskey, Van asked Ellen if there was a motel nearby where she could crash. She didn't go into detail as to why she was in town, but she did let Ellen know that she was there to handle some business her father left unfinished and Ellen told her of a place just a mile or two down the road that she knew her father had used along with John Winchester and Bobby Singer.

"You see that photo up there," Ellen pointed to an aged photo of three men, and Van immediately picked out her father. He was taller than John and Bobby, had lighter hair, and electric blue eyes, two traits that weren't passed onto his daughter. Van smiled at the photo of her father, but cringed when Ellen asked her if she knew John Winchester.

"I knew of him," Van bit her lip, "never had the honor of meeting him."

"But Bobby there," Van gushed, "he's a good man," she fingered the amulet she was wearing around her neck, a gift Bobby had sent her a couple of years back, for protection.

"That Winchester," Ellen crowed, "one stubborn son'a'bitch," she eyed her daughter, "ain't that right, Jo?"

"Not as stubborn as his son, Dean," Jo replied and Van blanched.

"You okay?" Jo rushed over, putting a hand on her shoulder, "I went and shot my mouth off before thinkin' again, didn't I?" she looked back at her mother.

"Dean," Van muttered, "Oh, I _knew_ him."

"Oh Honey," Ellen put a few bucks into her hand, knowing all too well the mess Dean tended to leave in his wake, "the boy's an idiot."

"I can't take this," Van held up the cash, but Ellen insisted, "you'll take it and you'll come back, after you take care of business, you hear?"

"It was nice meeting you, Ellen," Van held out her hand, but Ellen wrapped her in an awkward hug. Van didn't know where to put her arms, so she just kind of held one at her side and patted Ellen on the back.

"Keep an eye out for drifters," Ellen winked, "and watch your pockets."

"Oh, believe me," Van winked, "she won't get far."

Van spent a couple of hours in that bar and after driving for roughly fifteen hours, she needed a hot shower, a warm bed, and a good night's rest before heading deeper into town to a spot that was incredibly high in weather phenomena indicative of demonic occurrences. She walked across the street to her car, the street light flickered as she walked under it, and a chill crept up her spine. Van looked over her shoulder and chided herself,

"Suck it up," she opened the door to her car, slid into the driver's seat, and put the key into the ignition. Routinely, she checked in the rearview mirror, and nearly jumped out of her skin, when a person in the backseat just smiled at her, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

"What the hell?" Van turned to face the intruder and realized it was the girl from the bar.

"Think we got off on the wrong foot," she held out her hand offering a bit of peace, "name's Andie," she pointed out the window, "and my bike, there, that's Jeremy."

"Yeah, and I'm _Pissed Off_," Van snapped, but the girl just laughed her off,

"You know, I would have done the same," she winked, "you've got balls," she laughed again, "I knew I'd like you."

"I don't give a flying frak," Van unlocked the backdoor, pulling the lock up, and raised her voice, "get the hell out of my car."

"Well not to rain on your parade, Sunshine," Andie shrugged, "but you kinda owe me one."

"I don't _owe_ you anything, Andie," Van bit at her name, "and the way I see it you have two options," she held up her index finger counting off, "_one_, you get out of my car on your own, or _two_," she flipped up her middle finger, "I pull your boney ass out myself."

Andie slid back against the seat and pulled her knees up to her chest, wrapped her hands around her legs, intertwining her fingers, annoyingly tapping her foot, as if she was thinking over the options. Van slapped her hand against the steering wheel, muttered, "Have it your way," and opened her door. Andie however, leaned forward, handed Donovan back a few crumpled bills, and lost her sense of humor.

"Listen," she shoved the money under Van's nose, "there's no need to get all high and mighty," she sighed, "it's just after doing this for a while," she waved the cash, "it's just humbling to know there's someone out there who notices."

"Is that an apology?" Van was cocky and Andie laughed.

"It is if you're accepting." she cocked her head to the side and gave Van a small smile.

"I'm too tired for this," Van slammed her door shut, turned the car over, and peeled out of the street, heading towards the motel Ellen had told her about. After a few moments of silence, Andie climbed into the front seat and put Van's money into the cigarette tray that was opened and full of old straw wrappers and coins. They drove all the way to the motel, Van asked for a room, Andie at her side, got two double beds, grabbed the keys from the acne prone manager, and walked the two flights of stairs to the room. She unlocked the door, flipped on the switch, and took in the scene; the old room was made to look like the inside of a cabin, down to the faux wooden logs as bed posts, and a few stuffed deer heads on the walls.

"I seriously hate those things," she clucked her tongue, pulled off the spare blanket from the couch and threw it over the beady-eyed deer. She clapped her thigh and nodded, "That's better," turned to see Andie standing in the doorway, moths fluttering above her head, vying for the lone light bulb over the doorway, and Van motioned towards her,

"You goin' to stand there or night, or what?"

Andie shuffled in, slammed the door, and threw herself onto the bed, nearest the window. Not taking off her shoes, she pulled a pillow out from under the comforter, punched it a few times, and fell back. Van did the same, opting for a shower in the morning.

"I'd thank you," Andie absentmindedly stuck her tongue out at Van, "but I don't even know your name."

"It's Van," she reached between the bed, pulled on the chain to the lights, and covered the room in darkness.

"And for the record, I sleep with a knife," Van opened one eye and looked towards Andie in the other bed, trying to make out her form in the darkness, "so if you're thinking of gankin' me in my sleep," Van took a breath, "don't let the door hit you in the ass."

"Girl," Andie turned on the light and pulled a hunting knife from a sheath on her belt and Van could have sworn she heard Andie laugh, "I'll show you mine."

Van couldn't help but laugh; the girl was eccentric to say the least, but she had to admit she was audacious, stubborn, and Van hadn't met anyone like her in years. They spent the night talking, giving half truths about their past, but what caught Van's attention was the reason Andie was in Nebraska, at the same time she was; she was hunting something she referred to as _Sceadugengan_**. **Van asked her the origin, to which Andie held up her hands, held them in front of the light, and proceeded to make shadow creatures, "I think it's Old English."

"Schwatten," Van told her, "shadow walkers."

"Yeah, those freakin' bastards," Andie nodded, "who'd they take from you?"

"My father," Van lay back down, turned off the lights, and stared at the ceiling, leaving the air around them cold and a bit stagnant.


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21

The next morning, Van awoke to find Andie missing. Her body had left a worn impression on the aged comforter and except for that, it was as if she hadn't been there at all. Van stretched her arms over her head, cracked her knuckles, and got up. Her body was tired from the long drive and her mind was exhausted from the encounter with Andie. She walked towards the bathroom and cringed when she saw the yellowing soap scum ridden bathtub and made a mental note to shower in flip-flops. She then habitually checked under the beds, in the albeit small closet, and found nothing. Making one last round of the room, she pulled her duffel and plopped it on top of her bed. She unzipped it and checked its contents. Her jacket, her wallet, even her father's journal were in their respective places, and when she flipped on the television set, she noticed that the room key wasn't in the glass ashtray that was situated to the right of the old Panasonic. She looked over her shoulder at the motel door and frowned,

"Explains the lock," she meandered her way towards the door and slid the chain back on.

A slight niggling in her stomach tugged at her, but fleeted, perhaps Andie's presence was more than a nuisance. Then again, she thought to herself, having acne as a teen was a nuisance and she felt nothing but utter joy when she outgrew that stage in development. This time, though, she didn't feel elated that Andie was gone. She felt used; she felt alone.

Sighing she rummaged through her duffel, pulled out a faded Rolling Stone's tee, the once blood red tongue had now faded to a lackluster faded smudge of lipstick red. She felt around for her worn jeans, with the shredded knees, and declared this morning, a throwback to vintage. Van shuffled to the bathroom, cursed aloud, and yanked a pair of flip-flops she had bought for a day at the beach, cursed again, because she had yet to make it to one, and entered the dank bathroom.

Van turned on the hot water faucet of the bathtub and allowed the room to fill with pore cleansing steam. She watched as her nude figure fogged over in the mirror and that's when she noticed it; a handwritten note on the mirror, visible only because of the steam.

_Coffee run- bet I left, huh?_

A demented smiley face and Andie's surname, Morgan was scrawled at the bottom of the mirror. Van swiped at the mirror in frustration, opened the bathroom door, and stomped back towards the door she had just locked.

"Actually," Van murmured in annoyance but let the sentiment fade. She did, however, feel the red in her cheeks, as she found herself clothed only in a towel, unlocking a door for a girl she hardly knew. She also thought to herself that she was somewhat happy that Andie didn't just leave her in the middle of a night. That's one pro she had checked off mentally, unlike Dean, who wouldn't have thought twice to leave a message. In hindsight, it had been forever since Van managed to keep anyone around. Either she was too carefree with her heart or she managed to keep everyone she met at arm's length. She refused to have anyone die because of the life she led. Frustrated, she pushed Dean and the morbid thoughts of death from her mind, and reentered the bathroom to take a well-deserved shower.

After her shower, Van picked up her father's journal and skimmed over it, trying to pick up a viable clue as to where she should continue her journey in hunting the Shadow Walkers. Finding herself rereading the same entry, not once, but twice, she slammed down the journal and pried open her laptop.

"Weather patterns for Nebraska, area code," she typed in the numerals six, eight, one, five, and seven, into the web browser, and waited for the maps to pop up on her screen. In total, she was looking at roughly fifteen maps, all containing local, and satellite readings. The sound of keys jingling in the doorknob caught her attention, but what really caused her to look in the direction of the door, was the smell of freshly brewed coffee, wafting into the claustrophobic room.

"Get my message?" Andie smirked noting Van's wet waves of hair.

"Utter brilliance," Van rolled her eyes, "what if I didn't?" she countered Andie, waiting for a smart-ass remark.

"You did," Andie pointed to her hair, "and my nose thanks you," she scrunched her nostrils, "you smelled like ass and whiskey."

"Better than a wet dog rollin' in feces," Van raised an eyebrow and pointed to the bathroom, "it's all yours if you want it."

"Touché," Andie deadpanned and informed Van that she had found a mechanic in town who was willing to repair her sliced tires, but he couldn't get the supplies in until the end of the week, Andie looked over at Van.

"So, you're saying we're stuck with one another," Van noted.

"If you'll have me," Andie tossed her a Boston cream donut and Van caught it with a flick of her wrist.

"You're not _that _bad," Van humored her and Andie sat cross-legged on the bed parallel to Van's. Andie pointed to the screen on her laptop and noticed the satellite imaging of what she could only assume was Omaha, Nebraska.

"Fweak letrical thorms," Andie tapped the blinking bubbles of information, not bothering to swallow the chocolate glazed she was currently hoovering into her mouth.

"I don't know what's worse," Van couldn't stifle a laugh, "the fact that you chew like a cow or that I totally understood you."

Andie swallowed the chocolately goodness dramatically, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and smiled broadly, bits of chocolate stuck in her teeth, "C'mon you know you secretly love me deep down in that cold heart of yours."

"Love you?" Van threw a pillow at Andie, knocking her in the face, "Girl you're not even likable."

Andie feigned shock and retaliated by throwing the pillow back, her hands and fingers outstretched and she aimed them at Van, who went somersaulting backwards off the bed, onto her haunches.

"What the _hell_, was _that_?" she raised her hands at Andie, miming her actions with her own hands.

"Shit," Andie scrambled across the room and helped Van up to her feet, "sometimes when I least expect it, I go and toss someone across a room."

"Wait," Van dusted herself off, "you really did that, just now, didn't you?"

"Yeah," Andie nodded, "I'm a freak, what can I say."

"How do you do it," Van peppered her for information, "mind control," she flicked a finger, counting to one, "the force," she put air quotes around it, "or are you telekinetic?"

"Why I would love it if I was some sort of distant relative of Obi Wan," Andie smirked, "let's just say I can move things with my mind."

"I can't believe it," Van's eyes were wide in admiration, "I am _so_ jealous."

"Don't be," Andie dismissed her, "it has a mind of its own," she rolled her eyes, "it's attached to my emotions," Andie said it as if it were the plague, "which as you can see, aren't quite _normal_."

"Still," Van cracked her neck, rubbing the back of it with her hand, as she tried to piece all this information together, "it must have its perks." Van raised an eyebrow and Andie nodded,

"I just love-tapped ya," she grinned, "imagine if I hated your guts."

"Morgan," Van handed her a napkin, and indicated that she had a donut mustache, "this looks like the beginning of a freaky friendship."

"Sounds kinky," Andie winked and positioned herself next to Van on the bed, and together they scoured the web and satellite imaging for the next possible location of the German sons of bitches, The Shadow Walkers.

Andie hopped off the bed and dug into her hunter green duffel bag. In one hand, she had multiple pieces of paper and the other, a leather journal similar to Van's. Van eyed it and thought to herself, "Wonder if it's a hunter staple?"

"Look at these," Andie handed the papers to Van, "what do you make of 'em?"

Van flipped through the multiple charcoal sketches, all similar in subject, smoky edges, barely visible limbs, beady red eyes, like flames, and she stopped at the last drawing. It's apparent to her that a child has drawn this one; the rough lines, the empty eyes, she scans the drawing and stumbles upon letters at the bottom. There's an A, inverted, lowercases N and D, and she stops to look up at Andie.

"You," she holds up the drawings, "drew all of these?"

"Yeah," Andie fidgets with the hem in her shirt and bites her lower lip, "they sort of stuck with me all these years."

"You had to have been like, what?" Van asks her, "Five at the time?"

"Six," Andie corrects her, "they took Emma."

Van waits for her to continue, not sure whether she should pry or not, but then Andie shrugs her shoulders, "We were chums, you know," Andie smiles woefully, "didn't have many growing up, but Emma, she was fierce."

Van hesitated and looked skeptically at Andie, who in turn shook her head, "I know what you're thinking, and you're wrong."

"Emma wasn't afraid of shit," Andie informed her, "she had this knowledge for things that went bump in the night, she had this thirst, which no one could fill."

"We'd tell ghost stories, stay over one another's houses, she refused to keep a night light on, the flashlights just _happened_ to be running low on battery life, anything to keep us in the dark."

"I begged her one night, literally in tears, for her to turn on the light," Andie stared at her hands, and picked at her cuticles, that were already raw, "something wasn't right in that house that night." She stopped for a minute to compose herself, "One minute Emma was crawling out of the bed and making her way to the light switch, and the next," Andie shudders, "the next minute she was being dragged across the floor, her screams were deafening."

"Her father came rushing into the room," Andie looked up at Van, whose eyes were round in fright, "he flicked on the light, and she was gone." He searched the whole house, not hearing me, not wanting to believe me."

"He thought she was playing one of her pranks," she scoffed, "they blamed me, you know, for her disappearance."

"Said I was trouble, that I came from a long line of troubled women," Andie's voice grew darker, almost hateful.

"It took me years of nightmares to put the pieces together, that what I saw that night wasn't normal, but it was hell'a real."

"It's not going to take that long to destroy these bitches," Van turned the monitor of her laptop towards Andie, to show her the latest development.

"Is that what I think it is?" Andie's mood began to lighten and Van saw hope in her eyes; or was it revenge?

"Shit yeah," Van double-clicked the location, tore a piece of paper from her journal, and scribbled down the coordinates.

"Hot spot is less than ten miles from here," she typed in the coordinates and pinpointed their location.

"You up for a drive?"

Andie didn't take long to shove her feet back into her shit kickers and throw her hair up into a messy bun. Van didn't waste any time either; she stuffed a few necessities into her duffel, put what Andie could only perceive as brass knuckles into her back pocket, and headed towards the door of the motel room. The door slammed behind them as they made way towards Van's emerald green Camaro.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

"So, wait," Dean smacked the back of the driver's side headrest, "you're sayin' this Morgan can send shit flying just with a wave of her hands?"

Van couldn't help but laugh, Dean's reaction was priceless. She was waiting for him to start drooling over the fact that this girl was insanely awesome. Van nodded, glad to be taking a break from the detour down memory lane, and found herself driving towards The Hawthorne's parking lot, which was undoubtedly sparse.

"Yes, Dean," she parked the Impala near the rear entrance, in case they needed to make a hasty getaway, and moved the front seat up, so Dean could get himself out of the backseat. He put the driver's seat back in the upright position and gladly accepted the keys to his precious baby. "Morgan can move shit with her mind."

"The hands just help with direction and force."

Sam was speechless. Van could already see the gears cranking in his immense brain and when he saw Andrea Morgan for the first time, she was sure something else would be churning and it wasn't the brain in his head that she was betting on; she poked him in the ribs,

"She's hot too." Van winked up towards Sam and he blushed.

"What's that got to do with anything," Sam brushed off the erotic thoughts he was having and Dean slapped him upside the head,

"You haven't gotten laid in how many months, Sammy," Dean began to count on his fingers and Sam pushed him in the chest, with both hands, causing his brother to stumble backwards. Dean looked up at his brother and smirked,

"Bitch."

"Jerk," Sam grumbled and rounded the back of the Chevy to gather his duffel, while the rest picked up their gear and headed towards the front of the hotel. The hotel was beautifully restored to its original model, and they walked through the front doors, and rang the bell that was atop the marble counter.

"Man," Sam eyed the interior and whistled under his breath, "this is something, surreal."

"Beats the crappy shit hole we just slept at," Dean chuckled, "that's for sure."

Van started towards the front desk and then detoured to the elevators instead. Dean raised an eyebrow, inquiring sans words, why the sudden disinterest in checking in, and realized, that they weren't going to be checking in; Andie had done that for them already. Best if they just took the elevator ride up to the floor and knocked on the door. The trio was silent in the elevator as it climbed each floor, dinging as it hit the second floor and ending at the third. The doors took a second too long to open and Sam hastily stepped forward, hitting his nose directly into the steel doors. Van failed to stifle a snicker and Dean just shook his head,

"That's what they call a premature ejaculation Sammy boy," he pushed his brother through the doors and Van pointed down the fluorescent lighted hallway. The color scheme ranged in dusty beiges and robust maroons, with flecks of gold on the frames, light fixtures, and door knobs.

Van unconsciously tapped each door's number until she found the one she was looking for; room 315. Van knocked three times using the faded knocker and waited for Andie to come to the peephole. She could hear movement from the inside of the room and heard a hand reach for the chain and falter.

"Prove it," Andie's voice called out from behind the door and Van rolled her eyes.

"Come on Morgan, we've been driving for hours, and we're in need of liquid sustenance," Van whined.

"Nuh, uh, ain't gonna let you three walk in here, get all black eyes on me, and wear my skin as a handbag," Andie countered, "so prove you're you."

"I think she's serious," Sam noted and Van punched him in the arm,

"The girl is never serious," Van raised her voice and Andie laughed,

"Yeah, well after grappling with the shit I've encountered the past few days, you'd be a wee bit cautious Lancaster."

"Fine," Van took two steps toward the peephole and lowered her voice so only Andie could hear her, which made Dean and Sam move in closer to hear her. She pushed them away and Dean slapped her ass. She turned to him and mouthed,

"Now you're not getting' any," and he took two, steps backward, stuffed his hands in his pockets, and looked sheepishly at her.

"Now you just look like Sam," Van winked and Dean winced.

"Alright," Van brought her attention back to the keyhole and sighed, "I've got a tattoo that says 'I'm with her' on my inner left thigh that just so happens to match the one you have on your right one," Van reminded Andie, "which we got _after_ we downed two bottles of tequila, you started a fire in the motel room, and wound up doin' the firefighter who put it out."

"In my car." Van deadpanned. Dean and Sam looked at one another, each placing themselves in that very same scenario and Dean raised a hand, to which Van acknowledged.

"Just where on your thigh?"

Dean smirked and Van shrugged,

"Pay attention next time."

"So, there will be a next time," Dean exhaled a bated breath and winked in Van's direction.

A few more seconds passed until the sound of the chain sliding off its track and the lock turning on the door, garnered their attention.

"You make me out to be such a whore," Andie grinned like the Cheshire cat and Van looked at her feigning shock,

"Moi?"

"Alright, you're right, but you know what tequila does to me," Andie opened the door wider and took in the Winchesters one by one. Her eyes hung on Dean for a few seconds longer and then she mumbled,

"Oh, yeah, he's worth going to hell for," and then she caught Sam's lean, muscular, body, his sheepish grin, and shaggy hair,

"And you're the one with the brains," Andie winked tracing a finger down Sam's chest, landing dangerously close to his zipper, walked around him, slapped him on the ass, getting her hands full, and finished, "what I would do to you."

Sam blushed and Dean slapped his brother on the shoulder, almost commending him, for being desirable.

"Does he speak," Andie asked Van who laughed,

"Give him a minute, Morgan," Van winked, "I'd bet Sam's still debating whether or not what you just did to him would qualify as rape."

"Definitely _not_ rape," Sam found his voice and held out a hand in Andie's direction.

"I think I'm going to like you Sam Winchester," Andie shook his hand and unconsciously licked her upper lip.

Sam coughed and turned to his brother who was quite amused with the interaction between his brother and Van's friend.

"Morgan," Van slammed the door, "I'd tell you to get a room, but you'd just mount him regardless of spectators, so, got any beer?"

"I'm with Van," Dean too found his voice, wondering when he'd be able to get a word in edgewise, "Dean needs alcohol."

"Dean needs to get laid," Andie laughed and opened the mini fridge, tossed him a beer, and got the others one as well.

"Dean needs a lot of things," Van chimed in and Dean sucked down half the bottle before taking a breath, knowing very well what he really needed was a get out of jail free card, and the chances of that were slim.

"Dean's right here, ladies," he burped and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, "who's hungry?"

"There's a diner down the road," Andie informed them, "but before we go, I need to know what the hell you three are involved in and why this Lilith is putting a price on my girl's head."

Dean paled, sighed, straddled the back of a chair, took another long swill of his beer, and began to tell Andie in detail about the deal he made to save his brother's life. He explained what they had been doing the past few months to find a loophole, to get out of the deal, but the closer they came to finding an answer, the quicker the days were dwindling down, his year had turned into the roughly twenty something odd days, he had left. The hell hounds were going to sink their teeth into his body and drag him to hell, one way or another. That's how they ended up at Van's door. Things didn't get any better; there were strange things at work, countering Dean's deal, a mysterious priest, the idea of angels.

Andie put up a hand and stopped Dean midsentence,

"What about angels?"

"We're not entirely sure that's what it was," Van offered, but Dean appeared miffed by the situation itself,

"There's no such thing," he clanked his bottle down on the end table and pointed to the minifridge to which Andie nodded to go ahead. Dean took another beer, twisted its top off, and chucked it into the wastebasket.

Andie shifted uncomfortably in her chair and walked towards the bathroom. She pointed to Donovan and the bathroom door,

"You, me, my office, now."

"Andie, whatever you have to say, they can handle it," Van assured her but Andie stalked towards her, flared her hands outward, knocking the chair out from under Donovan. Van had all to do to jump out of the way before landing on her ass.

"What the hell, Morgan!"

"I said, now, Van," Andie pointed to the bathroom door and with a flick of her finger, it swung open.

"That's hot," Dean's jaw dropped and took another swig, "get on that, Sammy." Dean pointed a finger in Andie's direction and Sam chucked a pillow at Dean, hitting him in the face.

"You have to admit, it'd be a hell'a lot more fun than humpin' a pillow," Dean said matter of factly and Sam furrowed his brows,

"Dean," he drew out his brother's name, trying to silence him, but Dean only chuckled,

"Seriously, bro, you're one sick pervert when you're passed out on whiskey."

"You're right," Sam had to agree, the hard liquor always got the best of him, as Van followed Andie into the bathroom and the door slammed shut, "what do you think that's all about?" Sam jerked a thumb in the direction of the bathroom.

"Dunno," Dean didn't like the feeling he was getting in the pit of his stomach; Andie knew something, he felt it. She got all weird and Carrie like when he mentioned angels and he wanted nothing more than to storm open the bathroom door and invade their privacy. Instead, he checked his voicemail, clenching his teeth at the sound of Bobby's voice mention another topic that was sore to Dean's ears; Carmichael.

Dean grumbled a few choice words and tossed his cell to the bed. It hopped twice and hit Sam in the shin. Sam picked it up and raised an eyebrow in question,

"Was Bobby," Dean was agitated.

"Said Carmichael paid him a visit at Van's the other night," Dean caught Sam's inquisitive eye and waited for his brother to ask,

"What'd he want?"

"To school Bobby in angels, according to the voicemail."

"So, what I heard, what shattered the stained glass window, it was angels," Sam's mouth curled into a small smile.

"Not angels, Sam, just one," and Dean stood up and walked with determination towards the bathroom, kicked the door in, and caught Van and Andie with both their mouths open in shock.

"A bit dramatic, Dean?" Van picked up a rather large splinter from the break in.

"No more secrets Van," Dean pointed towards her friend Andie, and motioned them both back into the motel room.

"I just got a call from Bobby and I think your girl here," he pointed a strict finger in Andie's face, to which she pulled her head back and furrowed her brow,

"You know what they say about pointing fingers, Dean," Andie held up one hand, her fingers outstretched and sent Dean flying back into the framed picture hanging on the wall. Both Dean and the picture crashed into a heap on the maroon carpet. Van ran to Dean's side and knelt to see if he was okay. He felt the back of his head and ran a hand over the egg already forming on his skull. He shot a very convinced, but angry look in Andie's direction and snickered,

"That four more point at me?" he shrugged and Andie laughed,

"More or less."

"More, in her case," Van helped Dean to his feet and thanked Sam for the ice he grabbed from the pail that sat near the fridge.

"I need to know what you were just telling Van in there," Dean got straight to the point, "and if you even think about lying to me, let me lay it out for you," he swallowed and eyed the trio that were sitting in front of him. Dean, the rather stoic figure Sam looked up to, at that moment looked vulnerable.

"I don't have long here," he looked from his brother to Van and avoided her concerned gaze and focused his eyes on Andie, "but if you know something, anything, that can get us closer to this bitch, you _have _to tell us."

Andie understood his determination, she had fought many demons, even had some come for her, but there was always a way out, some way to fight them back to the dark, abyss they crawled out of; however this time, what she may know, what she had a connection to, may not be what Dean had in mind. From what she knew of him, of the Winchesters, they were stubborn. They fought alone. Having only a few contacts to fall back on, in hard times, what he referred to as landing at Van's doorstep, was more than just reaching out. He was desperate.

"I may know something, some_one_," Andie looked at Dean only, her eyes growing wider, "but he's not one for social calls."

"Who is he?" Dean squared his jaw, "Better yet, _what_ is he?"

"He's special," she looked to Van and swallowed, "like me."

"That's what she was just telling me," Donovan looked at the brothers from beneath her long lashes, "but you rudely interrupted."

"So he's telekinetic, what's with all the hush hush," Dean questioned Andie with suspicion.

"He's not telekinetic, you imbecile," Andie raised a hand towards Dean and he charged her,

"Do it again, and I swear, you won't wake up til three days past Sunday."

"Hmm," Andie pretended to weigh the options and settled on being straightforward.

"Anyone ever tell you you're a monumental bag of douche?" Andie cocked her head to the side and gave Dean a lopsided smile.

"All the time," his walls dropped around him and he mumbled an apology, "But if this dude's not telekinetic, then what's the big deal with him?"

"The 'big deal'," Andie used airquotes, "is that he's a good guy, or so I think, I can't be sure, but the one thing he has in common with you three, is that he wants Lilith offed."

"So how can we reach him," Sam asked and Andie eyed him from the corner of the room, slowly smiling,

"Let's feed those growling stomachs of yours, "and then I'll summon him."

"Summon?" Dean and Sam asked in unison, "Like a demon?"

"On the contrary," Andie winked, hooked her arm around Van's waist, and guided her friend towards the door, leaving the Winchesters standing alone with questions burning. A low, grumble erupted the silence, and Dean shrugged, "What the hell's that supposed to mean?"


	23. Chapter 23

Thanks again to Kat for allowing me to use and abuse Andie Morgan, her awesome OC from her supernatural series. I just can't get enough of Andie =]

While the quartet walked down the abandoned, chilly, Salem cobblestone streets, heading to forage the nearest diner, restaurant, or bar, Andie wrapped her arm into Van's and pulled her a couple of steps ahead of the boys. Van turned her head slightly to see Dean, who had a puzzled look on his face; that wasn't surprising. He was always confused about something, but this time, she wasn't sure if he was reading too much into his first encounter with Andie, the bisexual vibe that leaked through the hotel's door, or the fact that this friend of hers had a connection, something to one up the ice bitch Lilith.

Not that there was anything wrong with their under the radar flirtatious relationship, but when it came to Andie, Van saw her as this sister she was never blessed with, and for reasons notwithstanding. Their past, usually laced with something hard and liquid, made for a hilarious night out on the town, but it ended with a solid friendship, one in which she was at the moment wondering just why they had suffered such a disconnect. Maybe it was because after their hard work, those years back, they never got to the bottom of the Shadow Walkers. The ashy demons, eluded them, again. However, not before leaving them with scars of their own. Not just tangible ones either; mental ones, like tattoos that inked their way three layers deep; permanent reminders of the ultimate fail.

"So when are you going to stop tossing me and my friends off our asses and come clean, Morgan?" Van nudged Andie in the ribs and she chuckled as her friend sucked in a mouthful of autumn air.

"I'm putting that off as long as I can, Lancaster," Andie chewed the inside of her cheek.

"I can see that," Van grumbled, "but why?"

"Things are complicated," she felt her friend shrug into her and Donovan rolled her eyes,

"When aren't things with you complicated?"

"Touché," Andie raised an eyebrow and lowered her voice, "he's not ready for this fight, Van, and until he is, I'm not going to throw a wrench into the mix."

"Too late, Morgan," Van stopped short, pulled her arm out of the loop, Andie had formed and caught Dean's eye; she steeled herself, making sure her face didn't give too much away, and found her voice,

"I could use a drink," she motioned to a pub across the street and down the road, a few stores in-between, "skip the diner and we'll meet you there," she pointed towards the lopsided sign above the establishment, _'Twixed. _How fitting, that they'd name the place something witch related; Salem really knew how to draw in the tourists.

Dean, always thirsty for something to placate that underlying feeling that something was out to get him, nodded, but not without reaching for Van's hand,

"Things all mellow yellow here, or is this gonna turn into a catfight?" He raised an eyebrow and his blue eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Mellow," Van told him and Dean pouted,

"Shame," he scanned her from head to toe, and back to land his eyes on her breasts. She playfully pushed him away but not before telling him,

"My eyes are up here, Dean."

"I know," Dean smirked, "but these are prettier."

"How romantic," Morgan feigned vomiting motions, to which Sam had to laugh. Dean didn't find it funny; he wasn't one to admit he loved anyone, especially when he had one foot in the grasps of hell, the other on a slippery banana peel, but what bothered him, was that despite her friend's obnoxious behavior, nothing about Van made him think twice. Nothing. He loved her, whether or not he told her those exact words, he did. In some real way, he couldn't fathom. He raised his hands up in surrender to Andie and chuckled,

"Easy there Jean Grey," he winked, "ain't nothin' prettier than Van's eyes."

"Give us a minute, will you two," Van pestered Dean and he turned to his brother who was shuffling his boat sized feet against the sidewalk,

"Let's go Lurch," he pushed his brother onward, "the girls' need a time out."

Watching the Winchesters fade into the fog that was eerily floating in from the outskirts of town, Van turned to face Andie and flipped her hand, palm side up,

"So?"

"So, you're not ready for this either, Lancaster," Andie eyed her with concern, "you're too wrapped up in this whole lovey dovey, puppy dogs and rainbows, fairytale, that you have no inkling as to the shit that's really coming."

"No inkling?" Van threw up both hands in frustration, "Don't lecture me on the inevitable, Morgan, I know there's probably a snowball's chance, but this is what we do, you, me, the boys, we fight or we die trying."

"Exactly," Andie pushed her friend in the shoulder, hoping to knock some sense into her, "we die."

"It may not be today, or two weeks from now, but no matter how hard we try, we lose the ones we love, Van, you should know that."

"What you began to tell me in the bathroom back at the Hawthorne," Van crossed her arms over her chest, to keep the chill air from entering her bones and to change the subject oh so subtly, "is it true?"

"Do you have some cosmic connection to the angels or not?"

"Because if you're just blowing smoke up my ass, I'm out." Van mulled over what Andie had begun to tell her before Dean interrupted. Andie had come into knowledge, that she wasn't as normal, as normal goes. She was part angel; a small part, but it was growing inside of her. It was part of her gift. A gift she wished she could pawn off at the local thrift store. She hadn't really come into her own; it was something that was eluded to, but she left her past so far back in the gutters of her mind, that ignoring certain feelings, intuitive notions as to why she was given such a power of telekinesis, came naturally to her.

"I may blow a lot of things," Morgan realized what she had said and couldn't help but chuckle, changing the air around them both, "okay, that didn't come out the way I wanted."

"Yeah, that's what she said," Van winked.

"It's true, the angel crap, but it's not all fluffy white wings and cherubs in diapers, they're insatiable, cryptic, cold, and downright bitchy."

"And this one, well, he's a pain in my ass, to tell you the truth," Morgan looked around her suspiciously and rolled her eyes, "always popping up with the worst timing, not giving a rat's ass worth of apologies either."

"Sounds," Van frowned, searching for the word, but coming up short. Weren't angels supposed to be caring, whimsical, champions? Why did this one sound like such a douche?

"Douchey," Morgan filled in the blanks, "I know."

"But he's not that bad, he's just another pawn on a mission, and he's on our side."

"So God then," Van needed to satiate her palate, "what's the big Guy have to say about all this?"

"According to the angel, God's on hiatus."

"We're in this one alone."

"Figures," Van deadpanned, she wasn't one to prayer, but that didn't mean she didn't' cross herself when she passed a local church or slapped the roof of her car when she sped through a yellow light. Religious phenomena and superstitions followed a hunter no matter if they were baptized in a bath of holy water or smacked on the bare buttocks when birthed.

"Can I meet him," Van asked after a minute of silence, knowing that the very essence of God, had taken a so called break from impending doom, made Van want to throw up. She wasn't a religious person, but everything she had studied, had put sweat and tears into, followed the notion that there was something out there, something to be the white against the black, the light to fight the darkness, the righters of wrong. Meeting an angel, would transcend all that she had known. Even if he wasn't as high and mighty as the stories led her to believe.

"_Wings _hasn't stopped talking about you," Andie sighed, "which means, when you least expect it, he'll just infiltrate your mind."

"Mind frakked by an angel," Van shuddered, "that's a new one even for me."

"Cliff note version," Andie smirked, "when you meet him, make sure you're dreaming good thoughts."

"So he comes when you're asleep," Van started and Andie couldn't help but chuckle,

"I'm pretty sure angels don't come."

Van made a disgusted face and Andie pushed her towards '_Twixed_, "Not this angel anyway."

"Wait, a second," Van halted, "this angel's been asking for me?" Van pursed her lips together and scrunched her nose,

"Why?"

"That's something you'll need to ask him," Andie shrugged cryptically, "so let's get shitfaced and reminisce about the good old days."

"The last time we got tossed, you set the motel on fire," Donovan reminded her, to which Andie winked,

"To which we each got a firefighter for the night," she shrugged, "so stop bitchin' and accept the inevitable, we're all getting lucky tonight." Andie's eyebrows danced in arches above her wide eyes and Van laughed,

"You better hope Sam's shootin' back whiskey."

Andie crossed her fingers and the two women laughed as they pulled open the wooden doors to the entrance of 'Twixed. They scanned their dimly lit surroundings and found the Winchesters at a booth towards the back of the bar. Dean was swilling back a cold beer, while Sam's fingers wrapped loosely around another. Two fresh bottles were sitting across from them, awaiting the girls' return. They slid into the worn leather booth, and each reached for the cool brew. Andie raised her bottle in mock cheers, and pointed the lip of the bottle toward the middle of the table, her arm raised,

"To remembering the past and forgettin' what comes next," she winked at Sam, whose adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed the sexual tension in the air that was wafting off Andie like heat waves on hot asphalt. Dean raised his bottle, aimed it towards the middle, Van raised hers as well, and waited for Sam. The youngest of the four, clinked his bottle to the trio that waited for him, and his voice was gruff,

"Here's to forgetting."


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter 24

The four shot back tumblers of whiskey, a couple full of tequila for Andie, and Van lost count after three shooters of something the bartender called a "Quickie." They meandered their way back to the Hawthorne, each using the other as a crutch. Dean wasn't as drunk as the rest of them, and Van chalked that up to his excessive binging when things got hinky. Andie's arm was curled around Sam's middle and he was literally holding her up by the back of her shirt, as to not trip over her own boots. She slurred something his way and Sam stifled a laugh, but Dean pecked him for information,

"Whas so funny, Shammy boy," okay, so Dean was a bit sloshed as he heard his own words slop against one another like the tumblers he had thrown back. He cracked a smile at Van who took notice of his voice and winked.

"Morgan here's thinkin' of shackin' up," Sam's words were perfect and that made the other three cringe. How was it he was sober enough to speak and how the hell was that fair to the rest of them?

"I may have had a few drinks," Andie hiccuped, and stifled a giggle, "but this boy's one tall glass of dee-lish and I'm still thirsty."

"Easy, Morgan," Van clapped her on the back, which caused Andie to stumble forward into Sam's chiseled chest, which she felt up with both hands, and left her cheek squished up against. Andie landed with a slight 'oomph' and as quickly as she felt up Sam, for the umpteenth time, she had passed out in his arms.

"Let's get her to the room," Van held the doors to the hotel open and noticed that only the lonely, middle-aged, man was sitting idly by the check in counter. He went to stand but Dean shook his head,

"Don't worry 'bout us, Pops," he pushed the button repeatedly to call the elevator, "we gotthish under control."

The older man smiled at the quartet and murmured how he missed the good old days of drinking with his friends at the local pub.

"Dean," Van motioned that the elevator dinged open, "slurring doesn't turn me on in the slightest." Dean pouted, mumbled, "I've got somethin' that'll change your mind," and began to fumble with his belt buckle and was about to unzip in the elevator when Van grabbed his hands, zipped him back up, and sucked his lips to keep him from talking. And more so, from embarrassing himself in front of the camera and his brother, who looked on as if he was caught up in the most bizarre situation ever. Dean didn't fight her off, no, he kissed her back, pushed her up against the cool interior of the elevator, and let his tongue do the talking, while his hands found themselves travelling up and under her shirt. Sam let out a loud, obnoxious, cough, which didn't budge the two.

So he kicked the elevator, coughed a second time, and muttered, "Get a freakin' room."

"You're such a prude," Dean mumbled as Van bit his lower lip, sucked it for emphasis, and pulled herself away from his wandering hands.

"We'll be taking the room tonight," Van winked at Sam, just as the elevator dinged to alert them that they had reached their floor, "you and Morgan take hers."

"Wha," Sam stuttered, "what do you suppose I do with her?" he looked down at the unconscious Morgan whose lips were slightly open, drool dribbling its way onto the front of Sam's shirt.

"Do whatever, Sam," Van winked, "she's into _everything_." As the elevator doors began to close shut, Andie's eyes opened wide and she stared up at a bewildered Sam, and wiped the back of her hand across her mouth,

"So, Winchester, your place or mine?"

Sam watched as the elevator doors closed but not before Dean turned to face him giving him two thumbs up and thrusting his pelvis in the air. His face screamed, "we're gettin' laid" and Sam's gut screamed "why do I keep shootin' whiskey?"

x x x

After about ten seconds of foreplay and forty-five minutes of getting down and dirty, the last thing Van remembered before waking up, was that Dean had hogged all the sheets and left her curled in the fetal position, her ass to the windows, which thankfully, were closed and covered with a thick maroon colored curtain. She reached across the bed, pulled a sheet from underneath Dean, wrapped it around herself, put her head into her hands, and exhaled. She needed aspirin and she needed it fast. However, she stumbled in the dark, towards the bathroom, flicked on the lights, squinted her eyes, and turned them off. She fumbled in her toiletry bag for the bottle of pills, shook three into her hand, and swallowed them sans water. She turned to walk back to the bed, when what felt like a steel hook, grabbing her from the insides, seemed to pull her into herself, she tried to gasp for air, to scream for Dean, but before she could, she found herself on her knees, in a snow covered field.

"You've got to be shittin' me," she mumbled, wondering just what in the hell was in those tumblers called Quickies, and pinched herself, twice, to make sure she wasn't dreaming. She felt the pricks on her skin, watched as her taut skin, snapped back onto itself, and then noticed that she was still wearing the sheet that she had stolen from beneath Dean's nude body.

"From what I gather, I am not, nor could I ever be shitting you." A monotone voice came from behind her and she turned to face the voice. She was staring at a man, above average height, chocolate brown hair, that was mussed, just so, his steel blue eyes, and cocked head, waited for her to speak. She took note of the camel colored trench coat he was wearing over a suit, complete with tie, and cocked an eyebrow.

"Where am I?" Van raised a hand and thought better, before the sheet would fall, "Better yet, who the hell are you?"

"I'm a friend of a friend," he answered her, and she immediately thought, how much she hated riddles.

"Morgan's friend," Van put air quotes around the word as she spoke and the man, nodded.

"She was not able to come," he scowled, "the want of that man, the liquid sustenance she swears to live on, has clouded her judgment."

"Yeah, she's drunk, what of it?"

"Last I remember, I was doing just fine, before," she looked at him and noticed how troubled his eyes appeared, "you did this to me?"

"Brought me here?"

"I did." He offered no more to her and she stomped her foot, the cold of the snow should have been chilling her to the bone, but it wasn't. it was as if the air around her stilled, she had lost all sensation in her limbs. She wasn't numb, no, she just wasn't _susceptible._

"Am I dead?" she poked him in the chest, and it hurt her finger, as if she had slammed it against a metal slab. He looked down at her finger, then lifted his eyes up to hers and spoke,

"Remove your finger," he ordered her, but she left it there, tapping, wondering just what this man was made of.

"You're not human," she made eye contact and something washed over her, a sensation, a voice, one all too familiar, and she looked in the direction of it, to see a large colonial house, it's white dirty against the color of the snow, it's shutters a pale blue, and behind the house, a rather large, red, barn.

"My name is Castiel," he spoke, his words taking away all her fear, "and no, I am not human."

"I'm a messenger of God," he pointed to himself, putting the other hand into the pocket of the trench coat, "and this host, what you see, is the only way I can appear to you, without harm."

"You're the angel, Andie told me about," her voice was low, she was in awe, she half expected wings, a halo, something. But this vessel, this host, was just your average Joe.

"You look so," she attempted but Castiel finished her thoughts, her exact thoughts,

"An average Joe." He cocked his head to the side, "I told you, I am Castiel, I know not of this Joe you speak of."

"Where are your wings," she asked walking around him in a complete circle, trying to peek under the collar of his trench coat, "you must have some wing span," she spoke in awe, but Castiel shrugged her touch away.

"We have more important things to discuss than the length of my wings," he appeared to be perturbed, but he had to have known she'd be curious. She was a professor of the paranormal after all.

"Why am I here," she pointed to the house, "who's house is that?" Van scanned the grounds, the acres of land, and stared in amazement as a woman came to the front door, and called out,

"J.B.!" she held her hands over her mouth like a funnel, "J.B. we're leaving in ten minutes, you hear me?" Van watched as the woman, stepped out onto the wrap around porch, and walked the length of it, searching for this J.B. Her long, auburn waves, cascaded to her hips, hips that were encased in slim fitting jeans, fur lined boots, and a scarf wrapped around her neck. The scarf, Van stared, it was turquoise and brown, faded, but it was familiar. She took a few steps closer to the house and stood with her mouth agape, she was staring at herself.

"Whoa," she let out an inaudible whistle, "what the hell?"

Before she knew it, Castiel had placed his hand on her shoulder, and together they fast-forwarded to the rear of the house, towards the barn. Van could hear what sounded like metal clinking against metal, the blare of the music, stopped her in her tracks, his voice, mumbling,

"That's my boy," he rolled from beneath the Impala, and Van stood over Dean, an older Dean, but not that old. Perhaps a few years older. He wiped the oil from his hands onto an already stained towel and lowered the hood. He used a clean towel to wipe the prints off the hood, tapped it once, and sighed.

"Wish I was takin' you with us," he spoke to the car, "but the truck's suspension handles better in the snow."

Dean walked past Van, almost through her, to which she had to brace herself, but realized he could not see her, let alone feel her. That didn't deter her from reaching for him, her hand graced the shoulder of his jacket, and for a second, she could have sworn he stopped. He looked behind him but chuckled as he heard the other Van, hollering for J.B.

He smiled, briefly, and then pointed to the rear of the house, where a boy, no older than four, was hiding up in a tree house. She stared at the boy, who had to have been J.B. He had dark, wispy hair, eyes the color of the ocean, and was wearing jeans, winter boots, and a jacket, similar to the one she had just seen on Dean.

"This could be your life," Castiel told her, "if you stop meddling in things you can't nearly comprehend."

"Things? What things?" she asked, still staring at the boy, as Dean ran up towards him, scooped him up in his arms, and patted his head. She stared in wonder as Dean and the boy laughed as her other self came rounding the corner. She stood with two hands on her hips, to which current Van pursed her lips, and felt a bit sour,

"Lilith," Castiel's voice was solemn and Van turned to face the angel,

"This, all this, it's real?" she asked him, wondering just how in the world, did they ever come to having a normal life.

"It's what could be," Castiel repeated, "if you cease the inevitable."

"If I stop trying to help save Dean," she spat, "that's what you mean, right?"

"You can not save him," Castiel warned her, "it is already set in motion, he has to die, in order to save humanity."

"I will not _let _him die," Van's voice rose, the winds began to pick up around her, little tornadoes of snow came in from all sides; she watched as her family, her son, all ran towards the porch and headed inside the house. Van wanted to follow them, to see more, but the anger inside of her was boiling.

"You can't let him die," she pushed the angel, with all her might, but her hands again felt as if they met sheets of metal.

"I will do what I can," Castiel held her against him, feeling strangely connected to this mortal, the empathy that his vessel held, appealed to him, at times tried to fight its way out.

"But you must do as I say, or this," he pointed to her would be life, "will cease to exist."

"His death is necessary and your part in it, it too has been set in stone."

"We will meet again."

Van looked up at the angel confused, angry, bile was rising in her stomach, making its way to her throat, but before she could say another word, he pressed his index and middle fingers to her forehead, and then she was back, in the darkness of the bathroom, the aspirin bottle still in her hand.

She felt the bottle fall as she looked into the mirror, her ghostly face, staring back at her, the moonlight seeping through the tiny window above the shower. How could she allow herself to stop fighting for Dean? She couldn't. she knew deep in her core that she wouldn't stop, but something Castiel had said, made her question herself.

Their parts were set in stone.

"So much for free will, you son of a bitch," Van looked up at the ceiling, cursing God, Allah, Buddha, whoever had its hand in all of this; whoever was just going to let the love of her ridiculous life, die. For the cause.

"Van," Dean's gravel like voice called from the doorway, his silhouette leaned against the door, he was rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

"Come back to bed," he reached for her hand, a hand that was still cold from her trip with Castiel, but Dean didn't notice. He squeezed it, rubbed his thumb against her flesh, and pulled her into him. Together they walked back to the bed and slowly climbed in. Dean reached for her face, pulling her into a passionate kiss, and she allowed herself to put all of herself into it, giving him the one thing she could, her love. She gave him her love for over an hour and when he had fallen asleep, she crawled out of bed, walked back to the bathroom, closed the door over, turned on the shower, and sobbed.


	25. Chapter 25

_Author's Note: A BIG thank you to all the new fans of this story! I'm glad you have stopped by and added my story to either your faves or alert lists. Please feel free to leave comments! I'd love to hear what you find so interesting! That's what fuels this fire to continue writing Van. Another thank you to Kat for letting me "borrow" her infamous Andie Morgan. _

The following morning, Dean awoke to find the hotel room empty. Van was nowhere to be found. He glanced at the digital alarm clock, noticed the time, a little past ten a.m., and walked towards the bathroom to take a shower. As he stepped into the bathroom of the Hawthorne, a chill entrapped his body, sending a brief shiver down his spine. Dean watched as his breath came out in tiny puffs of frozen air, spun around, and scanned the room for any signs of a spirit. Within five strides, Dean found his gun, checked the tumbler, and cocked it, holding it out in front of him, circling the room, his back to the bathroom.

"Come on out you Sonofabitch," Dean growled to the nothingness that encompassed the rather large room. Another chill, this time, more powerful, came from behind him, and he turned to face the apparition, whose contorted face screamed in silence, begged with a cryptic and boney finger, for Dean to follow him. Dean raised an eyebrow and shook his head,

"Hell to the no," he snapped a snarky bite, one that was at the time bigger than his bark, but the apparition continued to wave him closer. Dean, held resolute, and backed away, one step at a time, his gun still raised to fire.

"Musssssssst come," the man spoke, coughed and sputtered, and Dean noticed that he began to flicker in and out.

"Freakin' echo?" he mumbled to nobody but himself. "Poor bastard."

"She'sssss here," the apparition checked in and out as if he was controlled by a remote, "musssst hurry."

"Who?" Dean found himself asking, wondering just why he was having this conversation with a ghost, trapped in its own death, replaying his final moments over repeatedly.

The man's face became less frightened, his eyes widened in shock, or recognition of his final moments, or Dean hypothesized, his attacker, and watched as the man's neck cracked at an awkward angle, his breath let out one final raspy warning, and his body slumped to a pile on the bathroom tiles. Dean lowered his gun, rubbed one hand over his eyes, and let out a breath he must have been holding, and echoed the ghost's final warning,

"_Schatten." _ Dean looked at himself in the mirror and after giving himself a once over with a final wink of approval, he asked himself,

"What the hell is a Schatten?"

After nixing the shower and throwing on his jeans from last night, Dean opted for a semi fresh shirt, after giving it a final whiff. Shrugging it was good enough, he finished getting dressed, splashed some cold water on his face, and walked to the room next door. He raised a fist to the door and knocked three times, each pound a bit louder than its prior knock. He wasn't shocked to find that Van, Morgan, and his brother had been awake and waiting for his hung-over ass to join them. What concerned him was Van's awkward attempt at distancing herself when he glanced her way and smirked,

"Use 'em and lose 'em?"

He used her line, thinking she'd answer with something snarky, but instead she hesitated, catching Andie's eye, and steeled herself,

"Might as well." Van's hands trembled beneath her armpits, arms crossed across her chest, but her voice was as steady as Dean's trigger finger.

Dean found himself confused, replaying the previous night, the intimacy, the sex, words exchanged, each time ending with finding Van in the bathroom. Each time, finding themselves tangled in the sheets, again. What had he done wrong? He walked towards her, cautious that his brother and Andie were watching him, but ignoring them, he squatted so he was eye level with Van, and lowered his voice,

"If this is because of that thing I asked you to do with your tongue," Dean put a hand to Van's cheek, but she pulled her face away, pushed herself past him, and rolled her eyes, her words a bit rougher, but still harshly whispered,

"Has nothing to do with you, alright," she raised her hands, apparently frustrated, and holding something back. Dean was certain that she was lying straight to his face. He watched her look past him at Andie and he could have sworn she gave her friend a slight nod with a smirk. Dean watched it all play out, Andie nodding Van the reassurance she needed to confront him, the way his brother had his arm around Andie, siding with them, against him.

"Nothing to do with me," Dean raised his voice, "you gotta work on your poker face, Lancaster."

"My what?" she hollered back, witnessing a rage boiling in Dean, that she hadn't seen in years.

"Your face," Dean stalked towards her, throwing his finger into her face, "the one you wear when you're a lying two faced bitch!"

"Dean!" Sam's guttural outcry at his brother's blatant attack on Van, the woman Sam had known for years, Dean secretly pined away for, caused him to lunge for his brother, but Dean elbowed him in the stomach.

"Get off of me, you yellow eyed bastard!"

Sam buckled and watched as his brother's fury escalated and he was within inches from Van's face, screaming at her, spit hitting her cheekbones, his brother's hands had found themselves wrapped around her throat. Van was lifted nearly a foot off the ground, her legs kicking at her assailant, her lover, his eyes, coated over with something, almost sinister.

Andie shouted at the top of her lungs, but Dean still held her friend off the ground. She had to do something, anything to break Dean out of whatever steroidal rage he was on, and she had only one option. She found herself fighting him off Van, clawing at his shirt, but Dean only pushed her away, leaving one hand on Van's throat. Andie fell backward, where Sam caught her before her head hit off the carpeted floor.

"Don't worry," Dean sneered down at Andie, "you'll be next."

She felt the power within herself grow and before she knew it, she pushed her hand towards the wall, where Dean held Van in his grasp, choking the life out of her. Dean and Van went flying into the opposite wall, hitting the mirror above the sink. Dean's head cracked against the mirror, causing it create a splintered spider web. Van's nearly lifeless body ricocheted off the glass too, only she limply fell to the counter top, her head nearly missing the chrome faucet, slipping to the floor with a deafening thump. Sam ran to them both, checked Dean's pulse, nodded to Andie that he was okay and left his brother in a heap on the floor. He felt for Van's pulse, his two slender fingers nestled into the crook of her neck, and his eyes lifted slowly to Andie who knelt opposite her friend's body.

"Nothing," he shook his head, indicating that Van had no pulse, and Andie watched as Sam began to perform CPR on her friend. He meticulously found Van's belly button, inched upward to her sternum, and began compressions. He then closed off her nostrils, and breathed into her mouth. Andie watched silently as Van's chest rose with Sam's breath. He did it twice, one breath for every five compressions, before starting full resuscitating recovery. Andie was mumbling to herself, a couple of lone tears, streamed down her face, her hand in Van's, willing her to live. She heard Dean stir behind her and she had all to do from punching him out.

As Sam continued breathing his life into Van, Dean roused from the floor, wiped the blood from his temple, wincing at the cut in his lip, and the pain in his shoulder. He pulled a shard of glass from it and tossed it to the ground. He was oblivious to what had occurred, only that from where he had been standing to where he now lain strewn on the floor, Andie must have telekinetically kicked his ass across the room; again.

"What the hell, Morgan?" he attempted to get up but brought a hand up to his head to steady himself.

Andie ignored him and Dean realized that both she and Sam were huddled over something. He crawled towards them, and the image began to form in his eyes, her wavy hair, her lean legs, the pale skin of her normally flushed face. Her closed eyelids. Sam's hands pumping her ribcage, Andie's hand squeezing tightly to Van's.

Dean pushed his way nearer to her reaching for her face, and before he could touch her, Andie shot him an icy glare.

"If she dies," Andie growled, "you won't have to worry about Lilith."

Dean swallowed any rebuttal he had coming and graced Van's forehead with a bloody hand. A memory, briefly flashed behind his eyelids, and he somehow watched himself, watched what he had done.

"I…," Dean stammered, dropping his hand from Van's cool forehead, "I'm sorry," his lips trembled, he leaned back on his heels, "Sammy," he looked up at his brother, "what have I done?"

He knew it once he touched her, before Andie threatened him. He had gone from nightmares to delusions in only a day. His brother looked at him as if he had three heads. Sam just sighed, and continued compressions on Van's chest. Dean watched as his brother tried to save the woman he loved; the woman he attacked.

Hell was waiting, but waiting, for Van to breathe, to live, now that, Dean realized, that was Hell itself.

X~X~X

_Van opened her eyes, gasped for breath that she was denied, her hands clawed at her neck, and then she realized, that she wasn't in any pain. She took five long deep breaths, sat upright, and looked around her. She was no longer in the hotel room, in Salem, no, she was far from Massachusetts. She was in a meadow, its rolling, grasses, greens and golds, colors that were only imaginable in paintings, surrounded her. She looked down at herself and pulled at the alien fabrics that clothed her. She was no longer wearing jeans and a Henley tee; they were replaced with a pair of white gauchos, and a slender fitting tee, also white. Her feet, were bare. The coolness of the dew-laden grass tickled her toes and she looked around her. She heard whistling and as she walked towards the sweet melodies, she stopped in her tracks. Sitting, wearing white linen pants, paired with a loose fitting button downed shirt, sat her father, whittling something out of wood. Van watched in awe as the man she had lost whistled a familiar tune; a lullaby that he used to hum to her as a child._

_"Hey Sweetheart," he looked up at her with his bright green eyes, a dimpled smile etched across his clean shaven face._

_"Dad?" the word escaped her lips, she hadn't said it in years._

_"Come and sit," he patted at the grass, "I have something for you."_

_"Am I," she stopped herself, the word dead had such a finality to it, she couldn't stomach it, "are you?"_

_Van cocked her head to the side as her father chuckled._

_"I am, yes," he frowned only briefly, "but you, no, no you're not."_

_"So how?"_

_She wanted to slap herself, when was it when she stopped using complete sentences? It was as if the English language abandoned her when she most needed it. Definitely not the impression she wanted to make on her father, when she saw him again._

_"I'm proud of you," he rested a hand on her knee, the warmth in his touch warmed her through, "you know that, right?"_

_A tear slid down her cheek, "I do now."_

_"I'm sorry I left you, abandoned you," Van flinched at the words, but her father reassured her with another pat on her knee, "I failed you, but you, you'll succeed where I couldn't."_

_He continued to whittle away as he spoke to her, never revealing what it was he was making. Van tried to memorize his face; it was more serene that she had remembered, but the glimmer in his eyes, the one that hinted at mystery and slight mischief, remained._

_"You're so close to finding them," he blew at the wood, sending dust and splintered pieces into the wind, which as Van turned her face toward the sun, found it to be a blend of both warm and cool, a perfect temperature._

_"Who, Dad," she put a hand on top of his, and he stopped whittling, "who am I close to finding?"_

_"You'll bring closure to Andie, and it will bring you closure as well," he spoke to her through his eyes and he hadn't a need to speak anymore._

_"What about Dean?" Van asked him hoping he would know the answer, have another solution, to Castiel's impending words. However, he looked past her, and closed his mouth, shaking his head, a silent no._

_"Please, Dad," she found herself begging, "I need you."_

_He placed into her hand the tiny wooden object and closed her fingers around it, bringing her hand to his lips._

_"That's the thing, Donovan," he smiled tenderly, "you don't."_

_"Not anymore."_

_Van continued to shake her head, tears streaming down her face, she refused to let go of him, to lose him once more. It wasn't fair; losing the people she needed most. She couldn't save her father and she wasn't allowed to save Dean._

_"I don't want to go," she whispered, bringing her arms around her father, hugging him towards her, she muttered the sentiment repeatedly, into his broad shoulders, until she found she was hugging herself, rocking herself, alone, in the meadow._

_"It's time," another voice urged her, "you have to go back."_

_An almost distant voice, trembled in echo, "Come back."_

_She looked up into Castiel's eyes and wiped a tear off her face._

_"And if I don't?"_

_She asked, but she already knew the answer. Castiel reached towards her, his fingers graced her forehead, she wasn't certain, but it appeared that Castiel had smiled. Then she gasped._

_X~X~X_

Van gasped, for breath, choking on the influx of oxygen that infused her lungs, she clawed at her neck, keeping her one hand wrapped tightly around something, and she opened her eyes. She focused on her friend Andie, who had the biggest shit grin on her face. Sam, to her left, who was nearly inches from her mouth; shocked was an understatement. She couldn't help but want to laugh.

Dean, was kneeling behind her head, whispering amongst tears, something she had heard calling her from the other side.

"_Come back."_

Van shot up, her hands falling to her side, the object so tiny, it would have slipped past their eyes, but instead Sam, Andie, and Dean all noticed. They watched it fall from her hand, hit the floor, with a pathetic thump, and each watched her pick it up, turn it over in her hands, and stand up. Dean reached for her, and Van struggled to get her voice back in working order. Her words came out choppy and raspy.

"Dean," she held her hand out, palm facing him, stopping him from taking another step closer, "I know…you didn't mean it…maybe it was my fault, but," she took another breath, finding the act of talking unbearable.

"But?" Dean asked her, afraid he already knew what she was going to say, but hopeful she didn't.

"This is much bigger than the two of us," Van licked at her bottom lip, trying to get past the cotton mouth of being nearly strangled to death.

"Van," Andie pulled her friend closer, reaching for the wooden object, "where'd you get that?"

"My father," she held her palm open, the small wooden figure, stood nearly four inches in height, but it was plain to see, it was something both she and Andie had hunted for years ago and failed to find. It was a Schatten, a shadow walker, human in form, literally cloaked in darkness, face shielded from observers, its hands outreached for its next victim.

"Your dead father?" Andie tilted her head in disbelief, "Van you and I know that's not possible."

"Ask CAstiel," Van instructed her, "he was there too."

"Who the hell is Castiel?" Dean interjected.

"It doesn't matter who he is," Van blew Dean's question off with a wave of her hand, "what matters is that the Schatten are here, now, in this hotel, and I think they've got a new boss."

"Wait," Dean's brows furrowed, his eyes narrowed, "did you say Schatten?"

"Yeah," Van nodded, "why?"

"Well before," Dean swept his hand around the room, "I went all Nicholson on all of you, this Echo appeared to me in the bathroom."

"And you're just telling us now?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Give him a break," Andie came to Dean's defense, which they all found a bit strange, seeing how he almost killed her best friend. "I'm sure he came here ready to tell us, before," she winced, "he went all "Here's Johnny". Great, Andie thought to herself, she just referenced _The Shining_, not even a nanosecond after Dean did.

"What'd it have to say?" Sam sighed in defeat.

"That this Schatten, whatever the hell it is, is here, and it's what killed him," Dean informed them, "not some witch like we thought."

"It's possible," Van agreed, "they live in the shadows, they walk in the darkness, they can disguise themselves."

"If they need to," Andie interjected, "but why now, why not just stick to the shadows?"

"Lilith," Van said her name with mirth, as she glanced at the inscription on the bottom of the figurine her deceased father had carved for her. She lifted it for all to see and as sure as the days were long and Dean was going to die, her father had scribbled Lilith's name and a symbol.

"Whoa," Sam and Dean exchanged similar looks and Sam held his hand open for the object,

"I'll get to work on that symbol, I know I've seen it before."

Van, not wanting to let go of the last thing her father touched, reluctantly gave it to Sam, and agreed it was something to look into. She walked to the sink, glanced at the mirror, her face broken in its reflection, no thanks to Andie's work, and grimaced as she saw Dean's doing, his fingers that left bruising on her neck. She turned on the faucet, roughly grabbed at a plastic hotel cup, with The Hawthorne's insignia on it, and filled it with ice cold water. She drank two cups full before looking back into the mirror. Dean was standing behind her, watching her. She stared at him through the broken looking glass and waited for him to walk away. It felt like an eternity, but he walked away in only seconds, the door to the room slammed, and Van found herself sliding down another door, sobbing into her hands.

"Hey," Andie sat alongside her friend and pulled her into an embrace, "it wasn't him, you know that, right?"

"He doesn't have much time," Van confided in her friend, "it's happening all too fast."

"He's got what, a week left?" Andie questioned her friend, "I'd say it's going faster than fast."

"No, it's not just that," Van sighed, "there are signs, symptoms, I did my research, I mean after all I am the professor, right?"

"What are they?" Andie smirked, "Wrath and all that?"

"Nightmares, hallucinations, uncontrollable anger."

"I'd say Dean's jumped straight to 2 and 3, Professor."

Van grimaced reaching for her neck, "He went after you and Sam too," she glanced over at Sam working hard at the laptop, "I heard what he called him."

"Yeah, you're gonna have to fill me in on that whole yellow eyed shit," Andie suggested.

"Long story," Van waved it away, "like I said, it's happening too fast."

"We'll find a way," Andie promised her, but Van steadied herself and placed a hand on Andie's cheek,

"The way's been paved, no matter what I do, what we do, he's going to die." Van wiped a tear from her eye and dried it on her jeans.

"You've been talkin' to the angel, haven't you?" Andie asked her friend. Van laughed halfheartedly,

"He came to me last night and just now, when I saw my father, he was there."

"There?" Andie raised an eyebrow, her signature 'what the hell' face, "You mean you were at the pearly gates?"

"More like Emerald Isle."

"Huh." Andie exasperated, "He sent you back?"

"It wasn't my time and all that bullshit." Van's lips pulled taut.

"But it's Dean's?" Andie looked to the door which he walked out of and sighed, "Screw that, Van."

"What?" Van pulled her head back and looked at her friend in a strange new light.

"He may die, but he's not in this fight alone," Andie patted her friend's thigh, "what can I say, the poor bastard's gotten to me."

"Huh, who would have thought you were such a sucker," Van rolled hers, and Andie smirked,

"You stay here, help Sam," Andie stood up and held her hand out, to which she pulled Van up, "I'll go find Dean."

"There's a bar downstairs, I'll start there."

"Andie," Van called out to her friend, who turned and held up a hand, indicating she was stalling,

"Thanks."

"Just add it to my tab," Andie Morgan winked and closed the door behind her.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26

**Again, thanks to my awesome friend, Kat for "loaning" me Andie Morgan. Thanks also, to my new fans. =] Must be doing something you like…so please, please, yes, I'm sort of begging here, please leave comments. **

Andie couldn't help but stifle a cocky laugh, she was right, Dean was throwing a drink down his throat in the hotel's lounge. She scanned the room and shrank into herself, it was frigid and barren, sans the creepy bartender who kept eyeballing her from across the room. She could smell Dean as she approached him. She slid onto a barstool, it's red velvet cushions, compressed as she situated herself, and she tapped the bar once.

"You reek like ass and whiskey," she let the amber liquid coat her throat and pushed the tumbler away from her.

"And yet you're still here, so it can't be that bad," Dean smirked behind his shot glass.

"I've smelled worse," Andie cringed as Dean turned to face her, his stool swiveling around, nodding in concurrence.

"I bet you have," he waved a finger at the bartender, but Andie caught his hand. He hesitantly recoiled from her touch.

"Paranoid much?" she inquired in her cocky accent and Dean narrowed his eyebrows until they met dead center.

"You saw what I did," he growled, his voice a low, threatening purr, "how can you joke?"

"How can I not, Dean?" Andie turned in her seat, hooking one leg underneath her and letting her hands fall to lap.

"Did you forget who has the highest degree of education in the lot of us," she pointed a finger toward the ceiling, as if Van was in the room above them, "Van's been researching how to save you before you hopped her little white picket fence a couple of weeks back."

"Huh," Dean swallowed, shame left the crinkles in his forehead, and Andie saw the makings of a smile, but he faltered.

"That wasn't you upstairs, Dean," Andie reminded him, "it was the hallucinations, yet another tasty side effect of your ramifications with the Cross Roads Demon."

As Dean sat listening to Andie, he couldn't help but dart his eyes back to the bartender. The man kept silent the whole time, constantly refilling his glass, never making eye contact. Dean ran his fingers around the edge of the glass, tapping it, watching the man wipe down the tumblers and wine glasses. He watched him for what could have been no longer than a minute, when Andie waved a hand in front of his face.

"You in there, Winchester?" Andie waved her hand back and forth glancing in the direction of the bartender. At the mere mention of Dean's surname, the man turned, slowly, cryptically, as if he heard her, and stared in their direction. Andie furrowed her brow as she simultaneously rolled her eyes,

"You don't get paid to eavesdrop Buddy," she called over to the bartender who began to walk slowly toward them. She didn't notice, but he held a butcher knife at his side, the glimmer of the blade caught Dean's eye. That, and the fact that he looked like something out of a Rob Zombie horror film. The man's face was ghoulish and gray. His eyes were pitch black. The whole time Dean was wallowing in his whiskey, a freaking demon was serving him.

"Uh, Morgan?" Dean stood up, slowly, reaching for his waist, and pulled out his gun.

"What the hell, Dean," Andie stood up, her hands raised as if to protect herself, "you can't just go shootin' a fella for eavesdropping." Andie cocked her head to the side and considered her statement and mumbled, "In a perfect world maybe."

"Put a cork in it and get the hell down!" Dean ordered as he fired a round off over her head, hitting the bartender directly in the skull. Black smoke began to emit from his eye sockets, mouth and nostrils. Dean shoved Andie toward the exit and pulled a knife that Sam had given him that killed a demon dead, sending their possessing soul snatching asses back to Hell, leaving the human unscathed.

"Take the stairs," he pushed her again, and this time, Andie began to haul ass up the steps, taking two at a time, while Dean was on her heels, checking the stairwell for demons. Andie reached their floor in record time, pulled open the doorway that led to the corridor, and halted. There was a housekeeping cart outside a room, a few doors down, from their respective rooms. She halted, signaled to Dean that there was someone ahead, and waited. They could hear the maid exiting before they saw her and risked the chance. They walked quickly toward Andie's room, where Sam and Donovan were, knocked on the door repeatedly. Andie heard Dean inhale and turned to look down the hall; the maid had gone back to her cleaning cart, busying herself with towels. Andie beat the ball of her hand into the door, calling for Sam to open the door.

"Forget your key?" Sam chuckled as he opened the door, and nearly fell over, as Andie tumbled into him. He saw her pale stricken face and began to ask what was wrong, but he could hear Dean outside in the hall, fighting off someone. He heard the woman's guttural cries and watched as Dean shoved the blade of the knife into her throat. A ghastly shadow flickered, illuminating her from the inside out, and a black plume of smoke, exited her body and sought refuge in the air vents.

"Dean, what the hell?" Sam pulled his brother off the older woman and knelt to feel for a pulse. Dean kicked him in the ass.

"She ain't home, Sammy," Dean pulled his brother up by the back of his shirt and hurried him inside the hotel room. Dean locked the door, shouted to anyone to get his duffel bag, to which Van unlocked the adjoining room door, and came back within seconds with his bag. Dean's hand momentarily graced Van's and their eyes locked. In that moment, all that had happened was in the past. Right now, she was assisting him in lining the hotel room with salt. The doors and the windows were taken care of; all that was remaining was the air vents. Sam hastily climbed to the sink and used duct tape to close off the ventilation system. He tossed Andie the roll of tape and she did the same to the vent in the bathroom. Once everyone had taken cautionary measures to ward off the influx of demons, the room fell silent, sans their heavy breathing.

"Okay," Van wiped salt from her hands, flinching as the tiny granules infiltrated her cuts, "what the fuck was that?" She pointed a shaky finger to the hallway. Andie reached for her hand and they interlocked fingers.

"Demons," Andie told her, "boy wonder over there can see them now."

"What do you mean, 'see them'?" Sam inquired, confused as anyone, but as he looked to his brother, stole glances at the girls, he noted that they weren't as shocked as he was. Andie recalled the scene at the bar.

"What do you want me to say, Sammy," Dean huffed, "at first he was just pouring me drinks, the next minute his face was all," Dean scrunched his face, gnarled his fingers, sagged his tongue out of his mouth, "demonic."

"And her?" Sam pointed a slender finger toward the deceased body that was strewn across the hallway floor.

"Oh hell, she was goddamned hideous." Dean retorted.

"How long have you been able to see demons," Sam exasperated.

"Since around, I dunno, Sammy, twenty minutes ago."

"You knew about this," Sam turned his attention on a very exhausted Donovan, not asking, just stating the obvious.

"Of course I knew," she sighed, "I knew Dean had made the deal before you two showed up, I knew when the gates of hell opened up, I knew that you two were heading my way," she threw up her hands in finality, "what I don't know, Sam, is how to save him." Tears began to well in her eyes, her voice was still raspy from Dean's previous strangulation, and Van was feeling quite fatigued. Dean walked over to where she was propped up against the wall, leaning her head on Andie's shoulder, and slid down next to her. He took her free hand into his and squeezed. Van returned the gesture and turned toward Dean. She mouthed,

"I'm sorry."

He put a warm hand to her cheek, rubbed his thumb alongside her face, and told her she had nothing to be sorry for; he knew she was doing everything she could, even if she had been holding out on him.

"I'm sorry," he swallowed the guilt of his prior misbehaviors, "one minute all I wanted to do was kiss you and the next thing I knew I had my hands around your throat." Dean cringed as the words exited his lips, his eyes lingered on the bruises on Van's neck.

"I don't know what's real or what's not," he shook his head, closing his eyes, he let his head hit the wall with a resonating thud.

"We're real," Van reassured him, "Dean, you hear me, we are real."

Dean opened his eyes and found that his brother had seated himself in front of the trio and rested a hand on his brother's leg. He patted Dean's leg once, nodded that he was there for Dean, and Andie coughed.

"Alright, enough of this shit," she blinked back some saline, and Van laughed.

"Morgan, you got somethin' in your eye?"

"Freakin' salt," Andie rubbed the heel of her hand over her eyes, sniffled into her shirt, and wiped her hands on her jeans, "burns like a son of a bitch."

"Salt," Dean chuckled, "gets me every time."

"Whatever," Andie stood up and paced the room, "now that we're sequestered in this hell hole," she looked at Dean and pursed her lips, "my bad," she continued on as planned, "what do we do now?"

"We get our shit in order and wait it out," Dean suggested, "if this is the end, we're better off together then separated."

"Wait it out," Van echoed, "you're not serious?"

"I'm a hazard to everyone, including myself, if we go out there," Dean pointed out, using his past transgressions as proof.

"On the contrary," Van stood up and rummaged through their bags, checking their arsenal of weapons, flipping through her journal, "if you can see these bastards, why not just take them out?"

"Because if might just be a trap," Sam contributed, "and if it is, we have to one up them."

"So let's hit the books, the web, call Bobby, call in the Angel," Van's voice was steady as she eyed each and every one of them. She waited for them to come up with an excuse, but instead, Dean tilted his head to the side and grumbled something incoherent hidden beneath a smile and called Bobby. Sam plugged in his laptop and began to type away furiously at the keys, Andie took a seat on the floor at the foot of the queen sized bed, and perused through her journal. Van watched them disperse to different areas of the hotel room and smiled inwardly.

Van sat cross legged on the bed, turning pages in her father's journal, speeding through the pages, looking for something, anything that could help their defense. Andie did the same. Dean's voice was urgent on the phone, Van watched him pace back and forth, giving Bobby the four one one on their situation. Sam stopped typing and whistled. All eyes turned to him and waited for whatever it was that he had stumbled upon. Sam stalled, on purpose, until Van slapped him across the head with a down pillow.

"Time, Sam, _isn't_ on our side here," Van lifted the pillow for a second attack, but Sam held up his hands.

"Alright, okay, relax," he turned the laptop so they could all circle in and read it simultaneously. Each one of them began to smile and Andie reread an entry in her journal, a page that she had just minutes ago dog-eared. She nodded that she was on board with the plan. Van too had shoved the entry in her father's journal toward Sam, who chuckled. Van couldn't believe that the three of them had all thought of the same thing, that was until Dean let out a guffaw that caused them all to turn to him in wonder.

"Bobby," he breathed, "you're never going to believe this." He put the cell on speaker and nodded at Bobby's garbled voice.

"It can be done, boy," Bobby continued talking, "I've seen it done, you nitwits are just going to have to time it just right, but it can be done," Bobby sighed, "it'll give you time to get out of there anyways."

"Why you idjits so quiet," Bobby's gruff voice came out over the speaker of the cell. Dean, Sam, Van, and Andie couldn't believe that they had all stumbled upon the same answer.

"Dean!" Bobby was growing impatient and Dean thumbed a button and walked toward the window and looked outside. They watched Dean peer outside and waited for confirmation.

"Yeah, Bobby," Dean informed him, "seems they're just waiting for us, there's this old bag walking a dog, a crowd just walked into the bar across the street, and some new guests are checking in now."

"Right," he closed the phone over and turned to Van, "How's your Latin?"

Van's face brightened at the thought of speaking the dead language and began to write out the incantation to bless the emergency water supply that linked each room in the hotel to a sprinkler system. Andie rifled through her duffel bag, pulled out a set of wooden rosary beads, and tossed them across the room to her friend. Van caught them with a flick of her wrist and eyed the old beads.

"Never would have pegged you as the praying type," she raised an eyebrow in Andie's direction. Her friend just shrugged,

"Who knew some poor sap actually thought praying for a Morgan would come in handy," she winked and mouthed in Van's directions, "Castiel."


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27

"I'm going to need a way into the basement to hit the main water supply," Van piped up, while changing into something that would help her blend in the dank, musty, basement of The Hawthorne. She chose the darkest pair of jeans she could find, a slim fitting black Henley tee, and as she tied up her boots, a knock came on the bathroom door.

"Hey," Dean opened the door before Van could answer, and tossed her his black skullcap, "for good luck."

"Thanks," she caught her loose waves into a tight knot at the nape of her neck, twisted them together with elastic, and donned Dean's knitted hat.

"So about the way into the basement," she asked, her voice light with excitement, she was usually the one doing the research as of lately, but getting back into the mix of things, getting her hands dirty, shanking some demons, the adrenaline was pumping through her veins.

"Sam hacked into the hotel's blueprints," Dean informed her, "something about a dummy and a waiter."

"Dumbwaiter," Sam corrected him, "they used to use them to deliver room service when the hotel was first built, but now, it's of no use to them."

"Except to haul heavy laundry down to the basement," Sam looked hopeful, "which seems to be the best way in and out for you."

"Sounds easy," Van mulled it over, "where's it located?"

"Main lobby, behind the concierge, in a storage closet." Sam showed Van the exact route on the blueprints that he had magnified on his laptop.

"Should we synchronize our watches," Andie chimed in while the others looked at her with amused eyes, "what, I've seen it done on television."

"It's not a bad idea," Sam raised his eyebrows toward his brother, and Dean nodded,

"Yeah, can't hurt."

"Sweet," Andie looped the watchband around her wrist and secured it, "now, how do we get Lancaster down to the main lobby without the meat suits getting to her first?"

"We use Dean's palor trick," Sam told them and reviewed the plan once more. They each had their designated spots in the hotel, to ensure the sprinkler systems would go off in each room, from the top of the hotel, to the main lobby, which would be the most direct way back onto the street and to the cars. Dean and Sam would head out first, while Andie and Van would wait for their signal and follow. They'd do this until they reached the elevator, where Van and Andie would take it to the main floor, while Sam tapped into the security system and hindered the second elevator out of commission. It'd take longer to line the exit doors to the stairwell with salt, but while the brothers tackled that, it should allow enough time for Van to get to the main lobby. With Andie's telekinesis, Van should be safeguarded. Van would have approximately less than ten minutes to get into the main water tank, bless the water, and contact the others to set off the fire alarms, after Andie sent her down the dumbwaiter. Knowing Dean he'd be flicking on his lighter under the nearest smoke detector, once Van texted him. That's how they had planned to contact one another. Quick text to each of their cell phones; it was foolproof.

Dean and Sam hefted their duffel bags over their shoulders, while Andie grabbed a backpack, full of salt and a tire iron. Van pocketed her cell. Dean handed her the knife that sent the first two demons back to the fire pits. She felt the coldness of the blade and nearly nicked her finger on the razor sharp edges. She pocketed the knife into a leather sheath she borrowed from Andie on her belt and breathed in. She let out an exaggerated breath of air and told the brothers to head out. With one look, Dean didn't have to ask if she was ready, his eyes communicated his concern.

"Lead the way, Boy Wonder," Van winked and the quartet exited the hotel room and scanned the hallway.

Besides the corpse of the maid, the hall was deserted. Everything was too quiet, but that made it easier for them to detect whether or not they were coming upon any demons. They inched their way along the corridor, Sam and Dean leading the way. They made it to the elevator without any trouble. Dean ushered the girls into the elevator, made sure Andie pressed the lobby button, waited for Sam to take out his laptop, secure the second elevator, and wished them luck. Van put a hand to stop the doors from closing, pulled Dean toward her, and kissed him on the lips. She tapped his shirt, twice, and then shoved him back.

"Don't be a hero," she looked at him from thick eyelashes, "alright, just be…you."

Dean cocked his head to the side and gave her a lopsided grin, "Piece of cake."

The doors closed and while the elevator took an anxious Van and Andie floor by floor, the brothers made a beeline towards the stairwell exit.

Sam and Dean took the stairs to the fourth floor, one floor up, and checked for any demons. The sound of one of the doors opening down the lit corridor caused both men to brace themselves up against the custard colored walls. Two sets of footsteps approached them from the left and while Dean cautiously turned his head to look down the hallway, he motioned to Sam that there were indeed two demons headed their way. Dean inched back and retrieved a shotgun from his duffel bag, while Sam armed himself with a machete. They listened for the incoming footsteps, Dean held up his hand, counting down, from five fingers, to four, and so on, and as he reached the final countdown, the two demons, one male and the other female, turned the corner, and met their demise with a blast of the shotgun and a slice of the blade.

"Not too shabby," Dean chuckled and within seconds of the blast, more doors opened, and demons who had possessed the occupants of the hotel's suites, began their menacing approach toward the brothers.

"Uh, Dean," Sam's voice wavered as he counted at least a dozen men and women, he began to walk backwards, raising his machete, while Dean raised his shotgun, and loaded it with more salt pellets.

"Yeah, Sammy, I see them," Dean cocked the shotgun and fired off two rounds into the front runners of the group. Their bodies flayed backward into the mob, but the other demons stepped over them and continued their trek toward the Winchesters.

Sam glanced at his watch and noted the time that had passed. He reached into the waistband of his jeans and pulled out a handgun, also loaded with salt bullets. With one hand raised with the gun and the other ready to swing the elongated blade of the machete, Sam began to fire off rounds into the demons. Doors began to open, and cries from the occupants, who were not demons, were silenced by the slamming of said doors, their locks sliding into place.

"She's got less than ten minutes, Dean," Sam informed his brother as they backed their way into the exit door, slammed it over, and lined it with rock salt. With heavy footsteps, the brothers ran down to the third floor, lined that door with salt, and made a run for the second floor. While they continued their hunt for demons and safeguarding the floors from any escape, Van and Andie reached the lobby, and the ding of the elevator shocked both of them. The doors opened, and they exited, scanning the layout of the vast lobby. It was eerily empty, sans the manager behind the counter, and a woman reading a newspaper on one of the leather lounges. Van looked above them, taking note of the gunshots that were ricocheting off the upper floor walls, and laughed to herself.

"Shit carries, huh," she didn't realize how thin the floors and walls were of the hotel.

"Huff it, Lancaster," Andie urged her onward, and pointed to a set of doors, clearly the supply closet they were looking for. The manager behind the counter, turned to look at the two women approaching and narrowed his eyes at their baggage; not the usual accessories of two women frequenting the Hawthorne. He frowned at the tire iron in Andie's hand and the glint of the blade held on Van's leather belt.

"Tsk, tsk, Andrea Morgan," he directed his attention to Andie, "but you can't possibly think that will stop us?"

"This," Andie tossed the tire iron from one hand to the other, "isn't for you," she hefted the tire iron in both hands, raised it over her head, and lunged it behind her, catching the woman, who had left her seat, and began to stalk the two women. The woman's cries reverberated through the stagnant air of the hotel and black plumes of smoke dissipated through the overhead ventilation system.

"_This_," Andie thrust her one hand forward, sending the demon back into the mirrored wall, behind the concierge, "has your name written all over it."

He smashed through the mirror, sending shards of splintered glass to fly all over the hotel's lobby. He fought to get up, but by then, Andie had led Van to the storage closet, wished her friend luck, and turned to face the demon. She reached into her back pocket, pulled out a flask, twisted the cap, took a swig, and spat in the demon's face. It began to fester and boil and while he screamed as the holy water burned his flesh, Andie shoved the tire iron into his gut, reeling back as the black smoke purged itself from its host.

Van found the dumbwaiter without fail. However, it was padlocked, and as she scoured the supply room for something to break the lock, she picked up a broom, snapped the handle off and slid it between two of the links. Turning it clockwise until it snapped the chain, she tossed the handle to the floor, and opened the small doors of the dumbwaiter. Flicking on the flashlight she grabbed from the overhead shelf, she pulled herself in, reached back to release the rope, and as the gears shifted into place, the claustrophobic elevator began its descent. She glanced at her watch and as it glowed the time, she knew she had to get to the water tank in less than five minutes. The small elevator hit the basement floor and Van pushed open the aged doors. Surprised that her weight didn't splinter them, she used the flashlight to guide her towards the rear of the basement, passed the laundry machines, the cleaning supplies, and furnace. Sam told her she'd have to pry open the lid of the tank and as she came upon the aged water tank, noting the rusted lid, she cursed under her breath. She tried to turn the sealed cap but to no avail. She scoured the area, found a couple of rags, and used them to cover the seal. She used a sledgehammer that was conveniently located within her grasp, swung it down upon the lid, and cracked the seal open. She fished into her back jean pocket, withdrew the rosary beads, and began to lower them into the water. With each release of the beads into the water, she began to recite the blessing, warding off demons while protecting herself and friends.

"_Exorcizo te, creatura aquæ, in nomine Dei Patris omnipotentis, et in nomine Jesu Christi, Filii ejus Domini nostri, et in virtute Spiritus Sancti: ut fias aqua exorcizata ad effugandam omnem potestatem inimici, et ipsum inimicum eradicare et explantare valeas cum angelis suis apostaticis, per virtutem ejusdem Domini nostri Jesu Christ: qui venturus est judicare vivos et mortuos et sæculum per ignem."_

The water tank began to rise with bubbles, and Van continued,

"_Deus, qui ad salutem humani generis maxima quæque sacramenta in aquarum substantia condidisti: adesto propitius invocationibus nostris, et elemento huic, multimodis purificationibus præparato, virtutem tuæ benedictionis infunde; ut creatura tua, mysteriis tuis serviens, ad abigendos dæmones morbosque pellendos divinæ gratiæ sumat effectum; ut quidquid in domibus vel in locis fidelium hæc unda resperserit careat omni immunditia, liberetur a noxa."_

She reached for her cellphone, began to text her message, while completing the blessing ritual.

"_Non illic resideat spiritus pestilens, non aura corrumpens: discedant omnes insidiæ latentis inimici; et si quid est quod aut incolumitati habitantium invidet aut quieti, aspersione hujus aquæ effugiat: ut salubritas, per invocationem sancti tui nominis expetita, ab omnibus sit impugnationibus defensa. Per Dominum, amen."_

As her Latin echoed in the dank basement, a calm enveloped her, as if something, or someone was watching over her, and she tapped out the message:

_Kick the tires and light the fires._

_Let it rain._

As she hit send, she let the rosary fall into the water, and watched as it began to ebb away from her and down the multiple pipes that led to each floor of the hotel. She double-checked her time, ran towards the dumbwaiter, opened the doors, and found that the rope had been severed. She ran for the exit, but it too was barricaded from the outside. She scanned the walls for any windows, but they were too high for her to reach. She got two messages back from Andie saying all was cool and damp in the lobby. A second later, she got a response from Sam saying Dean had started a couple of fires and the sprinkler systems went off only seconds before. She tried to text that she was stuck in the basement but as she held the cell phone up to one of the murky windows, she let out a disgusted groan.

"No service?"

She slammed the cell shut and made for the other end of the basement. There had to be another door, a fire exit, or something that she could get through. She didn't realize that the basement's sprinkler system had erupted in what one could only surmise as a torrential downpour. Drenched and aggravated she stumbled upon another door. She checked the handle and it twisted as she pushed her weight into the door. It slightly budged but slammed back into her. It too was locked from the outside. Cursing, knowing the demons must have secured all exits, she wondered how the others were getting along. If they had gotten out alright, she could only hope that when she didn't show up at the car, one of them would come back for her. She pounded on the door, shouting over the whooshing of the water, which was slopping around her ankles. It was rising and fast.

"Shit," she pounded on the door, beating her hands raw.

"I can't believe I'm about to do this," she mumbled to herself, and then stopped pounding, folded her hands together, and looked up toward the ceiling.

"Cas," she said the angel's name, "Castiel, if you can hear me," she felt the water rising up toward her knees, "get me the hell out of here."

She waited and closed her eyes, "Please?"

"That took a lot out of you," a monotone voice spoke, "it appears you don't ask for help often."

Van opened her eyes, threw her arms around the angel, and then just as quickly pulled herself off him, his arms rigidly dangled at his sides.

"You came," she smiled behind her water logged hair.

"You said please," it appeared the man smiled, but that faded as he ordered her,

"Take my hand," Castiel held out his hand, Van grabbed onto it, and felt as if she had the air knocked out of her lungs. She opened her eyes, stood gasping, clutching the angel's hand, outside. Dean's car was idling by; her friends were staring out the windows, witnessing an angelic miracle.

"I thought you couldn't help us," Van looked into the angel's eyes.

"No," Castiel replied, boring his dark eyes into Van's, pointing a steady finger toward the car, "I can't help him."

With that, Castiel disappeared into thin air.

"Van!" Dean shoved open the car door and ran to her, looking around for the man that had just been there, but was now nowhere in sight.

"Who the hell was that?" Dean didn't catch a glimpse of the man who saved Van and he was silently thanking whomever it was that they got her out in time.

"Cas," Van whispered, wondering just where the angel went when he disappeared like that.

"C'mon," Dean wrapped his jacket around her and opened door, so she could slide into the backseat where Andie was waiting, "let's get you somewhere warm."

As the door slammed and Dean kicked the Impala into gear, they watched The Hawthorne fade into the distance, the screams of the demons, their bloody hands beating on the windows, all but a frightening memory. Van and Andie grasped hands as they stared at the hotel. They couldn't be sure, if it was the black smoke being eradicated from the bodies, or if they were seeing shadows emerge from the hotel. Van and Andie exchanged worried glances and looked back to see the wispy figures, looming over the hotel, creep down into the concrete pavement, into the cracks, hiding from the rays of the sun that were just lingering on the horizon.

"Schatten," Van mumbled just loud enough for Andie to hear her. Andie grit her teeth and punched the leather seat, knocking Sam's head off the headrest.

"It's not over," Van informed the brothers as Sam raised a quizzical eyebrow in their direction, while rubbing at the back of his head, and Dean looked at them from the rearview.

"It never is," Dean grumbled and floored the Impala down the street, making way for the next town over, not too far off the map from where they were.


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28

The exhausted crew drove in silence as they rounded the street to Van's house. The first thing she noticed was that Bobby had placed slabs of wood across her missing stained glass window. While it was done with care, she knew Bobby's heart was in the right place, it dawned on her that the pure ugliness that it masked was because of the angels. The heat in Dean's car did not do much to warm the permanent chill that raped Van's bones. With teeth chattering, she marched her way to the front door, mumbling to herself, not noticing that the front door opened.

Standing in the arch way was Carmichael. Van stopped short, her fists tightened, her jaw ached from the clenching, and before she knew it, she thrust both of her palms into the man's chest, knocking him through the door and onto the wooden floor. Carmichael grimaced, as the others gathered around Van. Dean pulled her close but she ripped her arm from his grasp.

"You knew!" she threw the accusatory words down to where the man sat, not bothering to get up. It was better he didn't.

Bobby entered the hallway, chuckled to himself at the poor bastard on the floor, again, and when Van eyed him, he quickly grumbled that he had something to get back to in the library.

"Van, take it easy," Andie attempted to console her friend, but when she laid eyes on the man, his ashen face, the deep set blood shot eyes, she recognized him. She rounded on the man, dropped to his level, and hoarsely accused,

"What are you doing here, you were told to stay away!"

The trio glared at Andie and it was Dean who acted, all his energy spent, on knowing that this priest, was not who he said he was, and now, Van's reliable, _credible_, source, knew him as well, was restored, as he grabbed Andie from behind, lifted her up from under the armpits, and before she could use her hands, had them pinned up over her head against the far right wall of the hallway.

"If you care at all for Van's sake, you will answer my questions, or I swear to God, not even your angel or your hands will be quick enough to stop me from ripping your throat out." Andie's face paled; she knew, she had to tell him, but it was all happening too quickly. Her eyes, glanced down at Carmichael, scanned over to Van, and she blinked twice, willing herself to nod, despite how tightly Dean's hand was constricting her throat.

"Andie," Van whispered, walking towards her friend, "what haven't you told me, just what do you know?"

She looked at Dean, his knuckles whitening as his grasp grew stronger, and put a shaking hand over his. "Dean, let her down, please," she gently slid her fingers down his, until she found his wrist. She squeezed lightly three times, and he relaxed his grip. Andie sucked in for lost breath and Carmichael ran to her aide.

"Are you hurt," he examined her gently but she pushed his hands away.

"Enough," she exclaimed, "I have had it up to here," she lifted a hand over her head, "with following your rules, the angel's rules, this is my friend's ass on the line too, Asher, and I'm done playing games."

"Asher?" Sam looked to the man they have been referring to as Carmichael and knew immediately that this man, was a man of God. Sam ran his muscular hands through his wavy hair and sighed, why hadn't he accepted it?

"Will somebody tell me just what the hell is going on here?" Van exasperated, looked to Andie for some sense of normalcy. What she received, however, was downcast eyes, that began to rim with tears.

"I tried to tell you, Lancaster," Andie threw up her hands in frustration, which sent a set of framed family pictures on the wall to rattle, crack, and fall to the floor, one by one, as Andie pointed from Asher to Dean and over to Van, with her hands.

"You told me there was a way to save Dean," Van gritted her teeth, "or was that a lie too?"

"There is a way, _was_ a way, I don't know anymore," she rubbed at her temples, a trickle of blood began to fall from her nose, "Christ why won't they just _get _out!"

"Andie," Van reached for her and wiped at the blood, "what's happening, please, _I_ need you now, we can bring this all to an end." She pulled Andie close and absentmindedly began to rock her as she stroked her tousled hair, "Stay strong, for me," she rocked her, "for my father," and at her last words, she felt Andie stiffen against her, "for Emma."

Andie swallowed the lump in her throat, wiped at her nose with the back of her hand, and nodded.

"I can hear them, the angels, it's like a freaking radio station on the fritz, whispering, planning, repeating Dean's name over again, as long as I'm not close to prophets, like him," she pointed a shaky finger at Asher.

"Prophet?" Dean laughed, "This just keeps getting better." Van raised an eyebrow silently telling him to save it for later. "Right, you're right," Dean shook his head, "please continue with the religion lesson."

"Dean," Sam groaned, exaggerating a simple one syllable name into a whiny term.

"This Lilith bitch," Andie didn't try to hold her contempt, "she has her ways, to infiltrate the line, the way in which angels can communicate. I found a way to focus on her thoughts, hence the bleeding." She indicated her nose. "Not all gifts come with pretty little bows."

"I know how to take out the Schatten, which should give Dean and Sam time to get far from Lilith, give him enough time to," her voice trailed off and Bobby finished it for her.

"Run." Bobby always had a way of showing up and doing just that.

"That ain't in the Winchester blood, Bobby, you damn well know it," Dean scoffed.

"It's giving you what you need, until we can meet you," Andie reminded him, "time."

"Lady, I don't know what the angel radio has been broadcastin', but I ain't got much of that either."

"Trust me," Andie said, "you do."


End file.
